


your past is not a threat (it's what brought you to me)

by runthemredlightsbabe



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: M/M, a ridiculous amount of pining, non-au, some found-family dynamics thrown in for good measure, that's it that's the whole fic, this is just hyunjin realizing he's in love with jisung for 20k+, this shit is so sappy gotDAMN
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2020-11-27 20:21:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 26,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20954339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runthemredlightsbabe/pseuds/runthemredlightsbabe
Summary: “Imagine if our past selves could see us now,” Jisung hums, stealing the thought right out of Hyunjin’s head, “Friends.”“I think past me would throw a fit.”“So exhausting,” Jisung says, “all that fighting. I just wanted your attention.”“Really?” Hyunjin asks, startled, “I thought you really hated me.”“Maybe at first,” Jisung says, “but after a while- I don’t know. I look back on it, and I think all I ever wanted was for you to notice me. Isn't that dumb?"No, Hyunjin thinks, no, it's not dumb at all.or: stray kids take a vacation and hyunjin realizes that maybe he's been in love this whole time





	1. i. beginnings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hyunsung nation rise

_his dark eyes took me in, and i wondered what they would look like if he fell in love (F. Scott Fitzgerald)_

____

They’re in the midst of comeback prep when Chan plops the idea down right in the middle of their kitchen table.

“Let’s take a vacation,” he says, and Hyunjin knows that voice. It’s the let’s-make-our-own-music voice, the let’s-win-a-daesang voice, the I’m-gonna-get-us-to-the-sky-dome voice_. _It’s the one he’d used on Hyunjin all those million days ago, dark silver hair and a half-empty energy drink: _debut with us, I think you should debut with us. _It was years ago, but Hyunjin doesn’t think he’ll ever forget it. Dauntless, that’s what Chan was when he’d made up his mind about something. Absolutely fearless. 

“He’s going to take over the world,” Changbin said once, edges of his mouth turned up, “Just you wait. One of these days, we’ll wake up kings, and it’ll be all because of Bang Chan.”

Years later and maybe Hyunjin doesn’t wake up in a crown, but he’s not in the rags he was born with either. Their success story is something out of a fantasy novel, a Hollywood movie. Hyunjin isn’t over it, yet. Part of him thinks he never will be. It’s been two and a half years and he _still _has nightmares. Still wakes up in a cold sweat, searching blind and scared until he’s sure – until he’s _absolutely sure – _that Yongbok and Minho are there. They all have it, the obsessive tic. A compulsion to count, to recount, to double, triple check. It’s still in the crumbling drywall above their bathroom sink from the night Changbin carved it: _eight or nothing. _Eight parts of a whole; if one piece goes missing, the whole thing caves in.

Backlit by the yellow overhead above their sink, Chan says, “Let’s take a vacation.”

The little digital clock above the oven reads 4:43 am which means they have fifteen minutes before they’re expected to be out on the pavement waiting for the van to take them to some obscure set to shoot part of the new music video. They’ll be on set for a good twelve hours, followed by a tech rehearsal for a dance performance at a studio a district over and a fitting for the photoshoot on Tuesday. Their choreography rehearsal for today is scheduled for two in the morning tomorrow, after which they’re all on a bus to a radio show two hours away. Then there’s the photoshoot. And then the variety show appearance. The recording for their dance performance. Vocal lessons. Production and marketing meetings in between more fittings and more photoshoots. More choreo rehearsals at two am. They have a video for a brand deal on Thursday to film—another twelve hours on set. Another variety show appearance. A prerecording. Even more choreo rehearsals. Hyunjin can count on one hand the hours of sleep he’s gotten this week. All that’s left in his veins is a vitriolic blend of caffeine, electrolytes, and Bang Chan telling him to prove his demons wrong.

_They think we can’t do it, _he’d said, exhausted in his Thrasher hoodie, the one with the holes in the sleeves. _They all think we’re going to fail. But we don’t need them. We found each other, we built this family with our hands. We’ve made it this far without them and we’ll cross the finish line without them, too. We’re gonna prove them all wrong. They’ll see. They’ll watch us rise and regret they ever doubted how high we could go. _

“Where?” Minho asks. He looks criminally put together for four forty-three in the morning, freshly showered and dressed to the nines, gaze bright and alert over his coffee. Seungmin is propped against him, bleary-eyed and half-way through an energy drink.

“Anywhere,” Chan says, “The mountains. A new city. The beach. When’s the last time any of us saw the ocean that wasn’t out an airplane window?”

At _ocean,_ Yongbok stirs from his half-doze on Changbin’s shoulder. “Could we really?”

“It wouldn’t be easy,” Minho levels Chan a look that reads something like _don’t give them too much hope_ as he feeds Seungmin a spoonful of egg. “How would we convince Management?”

“Maybe we could offer them something in exchange,” Changbin drums his nails on the table. His voice is like gravel, wrecked from overuse. “A mini-series? Like the one we did on tour?”

“They’d never let us film it on our own,” Seungmin scoffs, “And it’s not a vacation if there are cameras.”

“Well, we’re going to have to sacrifice _something_,” Minho points out, not unkindly. “We have a comeback in two weeks.”

“After that,” Chan waves a hand, “There’s a week before our tour in Europe. We could go then.”

“A whole week,” Jeongin sighs longingly. He hasn’t bothered to comb his hair--it sticks up in all directions like dandelion down. “I can’t even imagine that.”

Neither can Hyunjin. Aside for the quick one-off between concerts, he can’t remember the last time they had a vacation. “There’s got to be something we could trade.”

“Trade for what?” A voice from behind Hyunjin asks in soft satoori. He turns in his seat as Jisung slinks out of the darkness of the bedrooms and into the watery kitchen light. 

“Sungie,” Chan greets, with that older-brother sort of gentleness, “How are you feeling?”

“Fantastic,” Jisung says. It’s a lie, and everyone at the table knows it. They’re all clinging to consciousness by the tips of their fingers, but it’s Jisung who’s taken the brunt of the comeback. He’d collapsed yesterday, right in the middle of their choreography rehearsal. Management gave him half an hour of sleep and a packet of electrolytes and told him to get back up and keep going. Chan wanted to protest, to push back, but Jisung didn't complain, not once. After his half an hour was done, he took his pills, got up, and pushed through the remainder of their twenty-hour day without even breaking stride. The moment they were back in the relative safety of their dorm, he threw up everything in his stomach and spent their pitiful three-and-a-half hours of rest in Yongbok’s bed.

It fills Hyunjin with an ungodly amount of rage, watching Jisung pick his way over to the empty chair beside him. He’s still weak, still nauseous, although he does a pretty good job of hiding it; stealing Hyunjin’s plate of eggs and rice, making a big fuss about giving Jeongin a good-morning kiss. Hyunjin has spent four years watching and learning and memorizing every single one of Jisung’s tics and he sees right through Jisung’s bluff. Sees the way he holds himself like he’s got fragile insides, like if he moved too fast, he’d shatter into a thousand pieces.

“You’re making me blush, Hyunjinnie,” Jisung says without looking up. Despite his pleasant demeanor, there’s a warning in his voice. Because they all know Jisung’s lying when he says he feels fine, but only Hyunjin knows how much he’s really faking it. It’s not something they ever meant to happen, this strange connection between the two of them.

(“It’s weird,” Chan says at some point, baffled, “I mean, objectively. It’s like you’ve got a sixth sense or something, but you don’t even know his favorite color.”)

Hyunjin figures it’s probably a side-effect of being enemies for so long. There’s only so many times you can tear someone apart with your teeth before you learn the way their bones grow. It was inevitable maybe, all these threads they’d strung between each other. And now that they’re- whatever it is that they are (not _friends,_ not really) the malevolence is gone, and Hyunjin is left with the blueprints of Jisung’s skeleton and no idea what to do with it. It’s a little bit awkward, because they’re not friends, but Jisung still slips into Hyunjin’s bed on the nights when he can’t sleep and Hyunjin still pushes everyone aside to catch Jisung before he falls.

(“How did you know?” Changbin asks, hours after Jisung collapsed, “You were there before he even fainted.”

“I don’t know,” Hyunjin says, and it’s mostly true. He doesn’t know how he knew, except that he did. He saw Jisung and something inside went _catch him, _and then he was on the other side of the studio with his arms full of Jisung, (lithe little thing he was, he weighed less than a bird) blood roaring in his veins. _Protect him, protect him, don’t let them touch him. _He hadn’t let go until Chan had forced him to.

_Put him down, Jinnie. We’ve got him now.) _

“Jin,” Jisung says, and Hyunjin startles back into the present. He realizes that they’re all looking at him, that they’ve probably been trying to get his attention for a little while.

“Sorry,” he says automatically, “I’m tired.”

Jisung coos at him, pats his cheek. “You looked a million miles away.”

“Well, I’m back now.”

Jisung rewards him with a little smile. “We were talking about going to the beach.”

“Let’s do it,” Hyunjin says, still a little lost in the fog of _I would put myself between you and monsters. _“Whatever they want, it’s worth it.”

“I’ll bring it up tomorrow at our production meeting,” Chan says. He looks a little taken-aback by Hyunjin’s vehemence. They all do, except maybe Jisung, who’s staring at Hyunjin with that unreadable expression of his. He looks worn and pale and sick in the light, fragile like all of his bones are too close to his skin. All the roundness to his face, all the softness is gone, and Hyunjin misses it fiercely, just like he misses Chan’s lopsided smile, Yongbok’s terrible jokes, Seungmin’s pranks, Jeongin’s indignance. It’s been too long since they’ve been able to be anything other than shells of themselves.

“We need this,” Hyunjin says again softer, just to himself. Jisung looks at him, curious even in his nausea. Hyunjin just reaches under the table, finds Jisung’s hand. Squeezes it tight. _We need this._

_ _____

JYP lets them go. Not out of the kindness of his heart, of course. Hyunjin learned long ago that beneath his polite smiles and limp handshakes, he was ambitious and manipulative and very cruel. When they ask for a vacation, he tells them they will have two more comebacks by the end of the year in return. It’s a steep price to pay, but when they go down the line, no one refuses.

Instead of sleeping that night, Seungmin and Yongbok stay up and build a calendar the size of their kitchen table out of printer paper and stray stickers. Every night without fail, the nine of them gather together around their dumpy old couch and watch Yongbok tick off the boxes one by one. They make it through their MV filming. Minho starts making obsessive packing lists. Seungmin faints during a photoshoot. They perform their prerecording at Mnet. Changbin convinces the staff to let them borrow a van. Their album drops and it does better than expected. Jisung narrowly avoids throwing up on stage. With some help from Jeongin’s old school friends, they find a place to stay in a run-down little coastal town just west of Busan proper. They appear on Weekly Idol. In between double-booked tv performances, Chan gets a nosebleed that won’t stop. Management sends him to the hospital and he’s back less than an hour later, glassy-eyed and pumped full of electrolytes. Each day is a struggle just to make it to bed, but three weeks becomes two weeks becomes seven days becomes four days becomes eighteen hours.

It’s early on a Thursday morning when they depart. The van that they’ve borrowed doesn’t fit nine people and their accompanying luggage; they resort to folding down the last row of seats to make room. Hyunjin, Seungmin, Jisung, and Yongbok end up on the floor, barricaded in by suitcases. They’re in the process of building a nest out of blankets and sweatshirts when Changbin whistles a two-note alarm.

“Vultures,” he warns as several figures in freshly-pressed dark blue suits approach the van.

“What now?” Hyunjin mutters, craning his neck to get a better glimpse out the tinted windows.

“Probably some last-minute marketing changes,” Chan says. He tries to look nonchalant but the tension between his shoulder blades gives him away. “I’ll go see what they want.”

“I’ll come too,” Minho says and Chan shoots him a grateful smile as he throws open the door.

“Watch them wait until the last possible second and then tell us we can’t go,” Seungmin sneers, glowering at the blurry figures.

“They can’t do that,” Yongbok says, sitting up straighter, “Right? We worked so hard and the album did really well. All we’re asking for is a few days off.”

“It’ll be alright, Lixie,” Jisung murmurs, stroking his hair, “They’ll let us go.”

He nudges Hyunjin and Hyunjin obediently chimes in with some automated reassurances. Privately though, he agrees with Seungmin. They’ve suffered through their fair share of condescending conversations with JYP staff members over the last few weeks, discussions of what they can and can’t wear, how they must carry a facemask at all times, that at no point are they to interact with strangers or accept photos or drink alcohol. Some of the spiels are genuinely given with his best interests at heart, but most are thinly veiled threats. _Don’t mistake this for freedom. Everything you have, we can take away from you. _Just another reminder that as high as they’re flying, as far as Chan’s taken them, the collars around their necks have JYP’s initials on them. He could choke the very life out of them just because he felt like it.

Jisung’s optimism is rewarded for once because Chan and Minho return with only a few watered-down reminders.

“Just wanted to make sure we get back on time for our dress rehearsal,” Chan explains as he hauls himself into the passenger’s seat. Minho waits until he’s sure Chan's situated and turns the ignition.

There is a tense silence that lasts until Minho’s navigated out of the parking garage and down the street. Hyunjin watches as they turn a corner and the big looming JYP building disappears from sight.

“Holy shit,” Yongbok hisses after one last beat of terse anticipation. He looks frozen, as if he’s still half-braced for someone with a clipboard and a red tie to appear in front of their car and tell them they’re late for rehearsal. “I can’t believe we really made it out of there.”

“Me neither,” Hyunjin sits up on his knees to look out the back windshield. In a moment of rebellion, he flips off the dance studio as they pass by. “Fuck you, JYP!”

“Fuck you, JYP,” Changbin echoes back with zeal.

“Fuck JYP!” Jisung sing-songs, and it turns into a chorus as all nine of them curse out their stupid fucking entertainment company. They exit the city and pull onto the interstate and for the first time in years, Hyunjin takes a breath and feels his lungs inflate the whole way.

The first half of the trip is quiet. Changbin puts on his heavy black headphones and slumps against the window, drawing invisible lyrics into the glass. Jeongin dozes on Woojin’s shoulder, Seungmin sleeps with his head in Hyunjin’s lap. Yongbok and Jisung melt into each other, a pile of oversized pastel hoodies and soft blonde hair. Soft music plays from the stereo as Chan navigates Minho from the passenger’s seat, voice a steady and familiar rhythm. Hyunjin leans against Changbin’s duffle bag and runs his hands through Seungmin’s hair until he eventually slips into a shallow rest. It’s the most relaxed he’s felt in a long time and he savors the warm content that settles over the van like a heavy blanket.

Hour three is marked by Minho pulling into a rest stop for coffee. Everyone pours out after him, rumpled and yawning, stretching on the asphalt and blinking in the watery blue light of dawn. The air is sweet and clean, chilled with a light dew.

They’ve left the boundaries of Seoul far behind them, but they know better than to think they’ve passed out of the limelight. Hoodies and facemasks are exchanged, black and foreboding.

“We look like criminals,” Changbin says, half-amused as he examines their reflection in the rearview mirror. Jeongin mimes pulling a gun out of his hoodie and shooting Jisung, who topples into Minho, tongue lolling out of his mouth.

“Idiots,” Minho hisses, but there’s no bite.

Inside the convenience store, Hyunjin ends up in the snack aisle with Seungmin and Jeongin, arms full of flashy foil packaging.

“It’s banana flavored,” he warns as Seungmin prods curiously at a custard cake. “You don’t like banana.” 

“You don’t know me,” Seungmin says mutinously, even as he sets it aside for a bag of cheese curls. “Do we want onion or shrimp crisps?”

They’re interrupted from their discussions on the merits of snack flavors by a commotion from across the store. Hyunjin looks up automatically as Jisung falls into Minho, peals of delighted laughter echoing through the aisles. Minho whispers something into his ear, expression turning smug as Jisung laughs even harder.

“I really can’t take much more of this,” Jeongin mutters, shooting daggers at their teammates. “Either they have to get together, or I’m going to kill them both. The constant flirting is making me sick.”

“Bold of you to assume it wouldn’t be worse if they were dating,” Seungmin says.

“Is that even possible?” Jeongin wonders dubiously as Minho reaches over Jisung to pull down a bag of strawberry gummies. Hyunjin looks away as Minho’s hand settles on the dip of Jisung’s waist, bitterness flooding his mouth.

“Don’t ever doubt Jisung’s potential to be annoying,” he says, turning away. “I need some fresh air. I’ll meet you outside.”

Changbin and Chan are sharing a cigarette against the ice machine around the side of the convenience store. They look up as he approaches, masks pulled away from their faces. Hyunjin holds out his hand. 

“Don’t tell Seungmin,” Changbin says, flicking ash off the end as he passes the cigarette to Hyunjin. The smoke is a comforting burn in his lungs; he holds it in as long as he can and doesn’t think about Minho’s hand up Jisung’s shirt.

“Won’t,” Hyunjin promises, handing the cigarette off to Changbin. It’s an old habit, a familiar one. It makes him think of their pre-debut days, chain-smoking in the alley behind JYP and carving lyrics into the concrete with bits of glass.

They smoke the rest of the cigarette in silence until the bell above the door jingles. Changbin crushes the butt under the heel of his boot and wipes his fingers on his jeans as Seungmin and Yongbok turn the corner, cardboard trays of coffee and baked goods cradled in their arms.

Seungmin pulls up short, slit-eyed. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Changbin reaches out to take the coffee from Seungmin. “Waiting for you. Let me help with that.”

It’s not very subtle of him, and Seungmin doesn’t seem particularly fooled, but he lets it drop regardless. Hyunjin can feel Yongbok’s curious stare, but he ignores it, trailing a few wavering feet behind as they return to the van.

Hyunjin dozes for all of hour four and part of hour five with one ear bud in and the volume on low. He’s slipping into something deeper and darker when there is an abrupt and violent struggle from the other side of the van. It’s Yongbok, thrashing and writhing in Jisung’s grasp. He lets out a strangled sob, jerking so wildly that his elbow connects with Jisung’s lip. Blood trickles down Jisung’s chin as he grits his teeth and holds on tighter.

“Pull over,” Changbin says, unbuckling his seatbelt.

“I can’t,” Chan calls, “We’re on the highway.”

“I’m not asking.” Changbin squeezes himself over the row of seats, landing beside Jisung, who relinquishes his hold on Yongbok. The van lurches, sending both Hyunjin and Seungmin tumbling into Jeongin’s suitcase as Chan pulls into a rest-stop, slamming on the breaks. Changbin keeps his footing through some miracle as he pulls Yongbok into his lap.

“Lix,” he says, taking Yongbok by the shoulders and shaking him. “Wake up. C’mon, Lix, come back to me.”

Yongbok’s eyes fly open. He lets out a horrible, wretched sort of half-sob, throwing his arms around Changbin’s neck. “Hyung.”

“Lixsu,” Changbin murmurs, voice unbelievably gentle. He crushes Yongbok to him, one hand on the back of his neck. Yongbok’s tiny frame shakes, wracked by heaving sobs. “You’re alright. It’s alright. You made it. You’re okay. Everything’s alright, now.”

It takes Yongbok several minutes to calm down enough to stop crying. He pulls away from Changbin, face smeared with tears. Without missing a beat, Changbin opens the trunk, pulling Yongbok with him.

“Changbin,” Chan says softly. Changbin glances over his shoulder and a flash of understanding passes between them. Changbin gives a jerky half-nod, and tugs Yongbok away.

“Leave it, hyung,” Minho says, “He’ll take care of Yongbok.”

“I know,” Chan sighs, gaze intent on the pair as they cross the asphalt. “Everyone get their pee break in now, we’re not going to stop again.”

There’s some brief shuffling as Chan passes around facemasks and hoodies are unearthed from suitcases. Hyunjin elects to stay in the car, and after some reassurances from Jeongin that he’ll bring back fries, Jisung stays too. It’s a little unexpected, because usually Jisung’s the one begging for a rest stop so he can run off some of his tireless energy. But it’s also not that surprising at all.

“You’ve got blood on your chin,” Hyunjin says. Jisung wipes at his face, but it only smears the blood around. Hyunjin has to intervene with his sweatshirt sleeve and a water bottle.

It’s hard not to draw parallels between now and that night in January. The two of them all alone, Jisung’s blood still warm on his lips, silence so heavy, Hyunjin could put a knife through it.

In an effort not to fall into that rabbit hole of confusion and heartache, Hyunjin says, “Are you okay?”

“Doesn’t hurt that much.”

"I meant about-” Hyunjin nods in the vague direction of Yongbok and Changbin.

Jisung shrugs. He won’t make eye-contact, which is sign enough for Hyunjin to know he’s hit it on the nose.

He’s always been the sensitive one, little Jisung. Their bleeding heart. Everything they felt, he felt ten times as keenly. He couldn’t stand to see his teammates – his friends, his _family_ – in pain. It got in his head, under his skin. Tortured him in ways that Hyunjin doesn’t entirely understand.

Yongbok’s night-terrors were a frightening, terrible thing to witness. Hyunjin still remembers the first time he’d ever had one. They’d been convinced he was having a seizure, right until the moment he woke up screaming and sobbing, inconsolable for hours afterwards. He hadn’t told them the details of the dream until months later. It was the same, always the same. Yongbok, surrounded by his teammates, happy and safe and loved, until suddenly he wasn’t, he was up on that pedestal again, in a stadium full of faceless people laughing at him.

“And I can hear you calling my name,” He said, subdued. Still shaking a little. “I can hear you, but I can’t see you, and I can’t get to you. I try to run, but they catch me, and they tell me I’m going back to Sydney, and I’m never going to see you again.”

It makes Hyunjin angry because Yongbok is the kind of soul that poets wrote their epics about. Made of stardust, born from the universe. Shitty romantic imagery like that, that’s the stuff inside Yongbok. It makes Hyunjin angry, it makes them all angry, so they rage against the company and they rage against the industry, all their sick, voyeuristic fans who took sadistic joy out of watching them hurt, and they rage, rage, rage, all this pointless anger that they can’t do anything with except channel into being better so that no one can ever try to take Yongbok away from them again.

Yongbok’s nightmares don’t make Jisung mad. They scare the living hell out of him.

“He’s not going anywhere,” Hyunjin tells Jisung, “We won’t let them have him.”

“I know,” Jisung says, quiet and small. Hyunjin sighs and sets down his water bottle, opens his arms big and wide. Jisung falls face-first into his chest and Hyunjin does his best to wrap them both up in his hoodie. He puts his face in Jisung’s hair, rocking side to side all slow and reassuring as Jisung breaks down in the trapped space between them. It’s quiet, save for the tiny, fractured sobs that escape in broken pieces from Jisung’s mouth.

“We have to make it,” He tells Hyunjin.

“We will.”

“We can’t lose anyone.”

“We won’t.”

“None of us, ever again,” Jisung pulls away, and his eyes are desperate. “Promise me.”

“Promise what?”

“You won’t leave,” Jisung tangles his fingers in Hyunjin’s hoodie strings, holding fast. “You can’t leave.”

“Is that what you’ve been scared of?” Hyunjin asks, astonished. “This whole time? That we’ll leave you behind?”

“You,” Jisung says, and it comes out a plea. Almost childish, like he’s begging. “Just you.”

Hyunjin reels. He feels a little bit like the earth's stopped turning beneath him, and the sky's turned yellow. Like the only thing real in this whole entire moment is the boy in his lap, his fingers inches from Hyunjin’s bare throat. “I thought you hated me.”

“Just say it,” Jisung whispers, “I need you to say it, Hyunjin, please.”

“I won’t leave you behind,” Hyunjin says, still baffled. He unwinds one arm from around Jisung’s waist, cups his cheek instead. “Hey. Jisung. Idiot. I’m not going anywhere.” _Where would I even go? _He thinks, running his thumb under the soft space beneath Jisung’s eye. There are still flecks of kohl stuck under his waterline, and they smear like soot under Hyunjin’s touch. _I don’t belong anywhere you aren’t. _

They stay like that, even as the others return. Chan gives Hyunjin some long and unfathomable stare, impossible to interpret, as he rations out bags of snacks. Seungmin takes Changbin’s seat, settling in beside Jeongin and snuggling into his arm. Chan turns on the car.

Changbin and Yongbok arrive last, holding hands. Yongbok’s eyes are red-rimmed and tired, but he smiles weakly at Hyunjin and accepts Jisung’s hug. They hold each other for a long moment, communicating in soft, inaudible murmurs, before Jisung presses his lips to Yongbok’s forehead and returns to Hyunjin. Yongbok curls into Changbin’s space and closes his eyes.

They make an odd duo, the dark, angry rapper from Yongin and the soft, bubbling dancer from Sydney. No one expected them to get along so well. No one expected Yongbok at all, really. Chan found him in Australia, burning out in the same trailer park Chan spent half his life. He was a company-wide surprise the day he showed up under Chan’s arm, sixteen and freckled and bursting with talent. They fell in love with Yongbok all at once and all together, and Changbin fell hardest of all. Yongbok slipped into his life like he belonged there, walked right through all of Changbin’s impenetrable walls and briar fortresses and made a home. It was a miracle, how well he smoothed down all of Changbin’s sharp edges, sheathed his razor claws.

There was no label for what they were to each other because they didn’t need it. There weren’t ambiguities, no gray space. No missing links or pieces. Just Yongbok and Changbin. Easy.

Hyunjin thinks he gets it. They’ve always been better together than apart, the nine of them. There is a safety within them that didn’t exist anywhere else in the world. Eight people who understood him blood, marrow, and soul, who would die for him just the same as he would die for them.

“Jin,” Jisung says, “You’re thinking too hard again.”

_One of us has to, _Hyunjin almost says. It’s true that between the nine of them, Hyunjin’s probably the overthinker. He’ll get caught in some rabbit hole and get lost in his own tangled warren of burrowing thoughts and insecurities. Stuck in his own head until someone went to fetch him, pull him back out of his labyrinth and into the sun.

Lately, more often than not, that person is Jisung. He does it now, touching the ridge of Hyunjin’s cheekbone, tugging him out of his quagmire of uncertainties. “Hyunjin.”

“I’m here,” Hyunjin murmurs. Jisung makes a soft, satisfied sort of sound, thumbing at Hyunjin’s ear, the tiny silver studs._Matching, _he’d pointed out, not long before they’d left. Side-by-side in the dance studio mirror. _Look, Jin, we match. _Hanging off Hyunjin’s shoulders with his arms around his neck, Jisung had laughed like it was a joke. Just another one of their little games. _Isn’t that funny? We’re the same. _

____

It’s mid-afternoon when they finally arrive in Busan. The house is one of those old, weathered beach homes, gray and lopsided and eclectic. There’s a narrow, windy staircases up to an attic that tastes like dust and a porch with a ratty screen door that overlooks the beach. The place is full of flotsam abandoned by past inhabitants: cracked seashells in all the windowsills, yellowed books in in piles by the dilapidated couch, ratty blankets in the cupboards and outdated fliers for street festivals in the drawer by the kitchen sink.

“What do you guys think?” Chan asks, after they’ve thoroughly investigated.

“Ugly,” Minho declares, “And haunted.”

“None of the lights in the hallway work,” Seungmin informs them, “And there’s only two bathrooms.”

“All of the beds have sand in them,” Changbin says.

“I have a bird’s nest in my closet,” Yongbok adds.

“So what I'm hearing is that it's perfect,” Chan says. His tone is mild and also very threatening, "Since Jeonginie and I worked so hard to find it for you kids."

There is an immediate chiming of 'yes, hyung' and 'it's really great, hyung'. Chan laughs, and it doesn't come out like half-swallowed razorblades this time. It's genuine, and it fills Hyunjin's chest with warmth.

Aside from some loose tea leaves and a very sad-looking packet of ramyeon seasoning, the house is devoid of food. Thanks to Jisung’s uncanny ability to predict and evade chore delegation, he, Seungmin, and Jeongin are nowhere to be found when Changbin and Chan come searching for some extra hands to accompany them to the grocery store. Consequently, it’s Yongbok and Hyunjin who are cornered on the porch and end up on the fifteen-minute walk into town.

**[maknae line more like makGAY line]**

**eye mole:**

up next: MY TEAMMATES SOLD ME OUT [NOT CLICKBAIT]

**satan:**

we didn’t sell u out we used u as martyrs

**freckles:**

is that supposed to make me feel better?

**fox:**

u were sacrificed for the good of the cause

**eye mole:**

what cause???

**cheeks:**

the three of us getting the biggest room

ur lives will not be in vain rip

**freckles:**

…..

**eye mole:**

u better watch ur back han jisung

**cheeks:**

oh sure im quaking 

**eye mole:**

you will be

**satan: **

lmfao press f to pay ur respects 

**fox:**

f 

**freckles:**

f 

**cheeks:**

hey i ain’t even dead

**eye mole:**

yet

**satan:**

f

**eye mole:**

ur next Seungmin

**satan:**

[read at 3:27 pm]

**fox:**

rest in pieces hyungs u will be missed

not by me

but maybe lixsu

**freckles:**

bold of u to assume i won’t dig their graves myself

The town is small and run-down. Most of the storefronts are in various stages of disrepair or shut down altogether, _closed-for-the-season _written in white, streaky paint on every window. There are a handful of people on the street, either very old or very young, all of whom are refreshingly disinterested in Hyunjin and his friends, barely even looking up as they cross the street towards the little white grocery store.

Changbin seems uninterested in following the rough budget outlined by their management, filling their squeaky blue cart with expensive vegetables and premium meat.

“We’re signed to JYP,” he says, when Hyunjin questions him about it, “It’s not like they’re hurting for cash.”

“Management won’t like that,” Minho warns, “They put you in charge of the money. They’ll single you out directly when we get back.”

"So what?” Changbin retorts, “They don’t even pay us. The least they can do is make sure we’re fucking well-fed.”

Changbin's always been defiant, but it's been a little while since Hyunjin's seen him like this. Back in the beginning, when it was just Changbin who felt the brunt of Management's wrath, he never held his tongue. He was never afraid of punishment, not when it came to speaking up for himself and his members. But Management was clever, and they learned that the quickest way to keep Changbin in check was to come after his team. Unable to inflict harm on his teammates, Changbin had buckled. 

"Like putting a muzzle on a Rottweiler," Seungmin had called it once. "His one weakness has always been us." 

Changbin must read Hyunjin’s confusion off his face because the expression on his face softens.

“I just want to treat my little brothers right while I’m on vacation,” he explains, tugging on Hyunjin’s hair affectionately, “Do you think that’s too much to ask?” 

Something dangerously close to a sob threatens to escape Hyunjin’s mouth as he thinks of all the times Changbin has put himself in the way of one of his teammates and Management, all the million ways that he fought for them. Chest full of some amalgamation of love and pride, he shakes his head fiercely. 

“Good,” Changbin’s eyes flash with mischief, “I don’t either.” 

____ 

They return to an empty beach house and a text in the group chat from Seungmin: _at beach, bring towels. _It’s followed up by a blurry photo of Chan shirtless and waist-deep in the ocean with Jisung clinging to his shoulders. The photo’s caught them in the midst of being slammed by a massive wave, identical looks of startled joy visible even through all the water.

“Stupid,” Minho mutters as he saves the picture to his camera roll.

The closer they get to the beach, the more excited Yongbok becomes until he’s practically vibrating with barely-contained glee, face lighting up like a thousand suns as they crest the dunes and the ocean rushes up to meet them, blue and brilliant and inviting. It’s as if the four years of stress and work and exhaustion and pain evaporate off of him until suddenly he’s sixteen all over again, the bouncing ball of freckled Australian sunshine that he used to be. Hyunjin feels his heart lodge in his throat as he realizes how much he’s desperately missed this Yongbok, the one with all the smiles and dumb vine references and bad grammar. The one Chan dragged out of that run-down old trailer park in Sydney, small and fragile and strong and fiery bright. Their little miracle, their very own sunflower.

To keep himself from losing it right there on the sand, Hyunjin grabs Yongbok’s hand and yanks him forward, ignoring his cry of alarm. They sprint pell-mell towards the tiny outline of their friends, pausing only to kick off their shoes and shirts before hurling themselves head-first into the waves. Hyunjin stays underwater for as long as his lungs will let him, relishing in the familiar ache. He hasn’t swam in years and it feels a little bit like rediscovering a long-forgotten favorite sweater.

When he re-emerges, he’s several meters out, a lone form along a flat plane of brilliant blue water. His teammates have gathered at the shore in the midst of an all-out war. From the looks of it, Hyunjin guesses it's the maknaes against the hyungs and while Hyunjin would typically rush to the aid of his fellow '00 line, he’s out for a little revenge today.

Jisung is too busy fighting off Chan to notice as Hyunjin creeps behind him, signaling his intent over Jisung’s shoulder. Chan doesn’t acknowledge Hyunjin but at the last moment, he grabs Jisung and twists him around, pinning his arms against his chest. Jisung takes one look at Hyunjin and screams.

It’s not really a fair fight, even after Chan releases Jisung; Hyunjin’s too strong of a swimmer.

“Come on, Jin, let’s think about this rationally,” Jisung pleads, shrinking into himself as Hyunjin draws closer. He’s wearing an oversized white t-shirt—soaked through, it clings to the slender planes of his body, making him look tinier than he is. “We’re teammates. Friends. We debuted together. I would die for you.”

“Liar,” Hyunjin laughs, “You sacrificed me literally two hours ago.”

“It was Seungmin’s idea!”

“It fucking was _not!_” Seungmin shouts from somewhere behind them. Jisung flips him off over Hyunjin’s shoulder. They’re close enough to touch, and at this angle, Jisung has to tilt his head back to look at Hyunjin. Seawater streams down his throat in glistening rivulets, silver against his golden skin. His hands rest loose against Hyunjin’s chest in an aborted attempt to defend himself, fingers tapping a rhythm against the beat of Hyunjin’s heart.

“Any last words, Han Jisung?”

“Changbin can’t have my signed EXO albums,” Jisung says. “I know he wants them, but if I’m going to die, I’m going to die spiteful and petty. Give them to Yongbok or something.”

“Okay,” Hyunjin promises, and picks Jisung up. Even soaking wet, Jisung barely weighs anything at all, and in the split second before Hyunjin lets go, he’s caught up in the flash of a memory—his hands on Jisung’s waist, Jisung’s hands in his hair, the taste of strawberry soju in his mouth. His stomach jolts with a violent sort of heat as he hears a phantom moan of his name. _Hyunjin, please._

And then abruptly, Jisung is spluttering up to the surface, hacking up water and clinging to Hyunjin’s shoulder. The heat is gone, the tang of berries, and it’s just Jisung’s smiling face in his, laughing and saying _do that again, Jinnie, do it again. _

_ _____

Hyunjin wakes up the next morning to thudding feet and his door exploding open with a _bang_. Years of living with six psychopaths has trained him for moments like these and he yanks his comforter over his head seconds before he’s crushed by a lanky, wriggling form. 

“What the fuck?” Hyunjin hisses as the covers are wrenched out of his grip and a panicked Seungmin squirms into his space. His hair is wet, fingers chilled as he wiggles as close to Hyunjin as he can get, yanking the covers back over both of them. “Minnie, what the-”

“Shut up!” Seungmin says. He yanks one of Hyunjin’s pillows out from under his head and beats him in the face with it. “Pretend you’re still asleep.”

“Why?” Hyunjin says as best he can while being violently smothered by a pillow. “What did you do?”

Seungmin’s response is to beat Hyunjin soundly about the head a second time and then go completely still. Bewildered and mostly asleep, Hyunjin gawks at him. He gets about two minutes of peace before there are more footsteps outside his door. There’s a pause, some scuffling, and then a cautious creak.

“Seungmin?” Jisung whispers. There’s some rustling from Seungmin’s side which must be some sort of signal, because moments later, they are joined by a giggling Jisung.

“You are so screwed,” he tells Seungmin, elbowing Hyunjin in the gut in the process. “Chan is going to kill you.”

“He’s going to kill you, too,” Seungmin hisses back.

“No, he won’t,” comes Jisung’s indignant retort, “I didn’t even touch that water gun.”

“Seungmin,” Hyunjin groans, stomach sinking, “What did you do?”

“Nothing!” Seungmin says, hitting Hyunjin once again. “Everyone shut the fuck up!”

Once again, they are given a few minutes of silence before Hyunjin’s door is flung open for the third time that morning.

“KIM SEUNGMIN,” Chan bellows, “I AM GOING TO KILL YOU.”

“See?” Jisung whispers, and then the covers are wrenched away. Seungmin screams and rolls off the bed. Jisung laughs. Hyunjin opens his eyes just in time to see the blurry form of Seungmin sprint out of his bedroom, followed very closely by a white-haired blob that he vaguely recognizes as Chan. They careen up the hall and down the stairs, and from the sounds of it, straight out the back door and out into the yard. There is another piercing scream and then ringing silence.

“Damn,” Jisung says after a brief, awed pause, “Seungmin’s fucking dead.”

“Rip,” Hyunjin mumbles, searching blindly for the covers. “What did he do?”

“Woke Chan up with a water gun,” Jisung says. He picks something white and lumpy off the floor, which turns out to be Hyunjin’s pillow. “Changbin got the whole thing on video.”

“I want to see that,” Hyunjin decides, wiggling back into his mattress. “How about later?”

“Later is good,” Jisung says, snuggling up against him. It’s sort of too warm under the covers for both of them, but Jisung is soft and smells like coconut shampoo and hums soft melodies to himself. The weight of him, the shape of him, the way he fits into Hyunjin’s side all the right ways, tucks his head under Hyunjin’s chin, is strange and familiar all at once, comforting as much as it is foreign. Because they know each other inside and out, but not like this. Never like this. Their relationship wasn’t made for softness. No kind, gentle, quiet moments where Hyunjin reaches for Jisung’s hand under the blankets and Jisung lets him take it. It feels to Hyunjin very much like meeting someone again after years of being apart.

_Hello, it’s been a while. _

“What’re you thinking about?” Jisung murmurs without looking up, fingers tracing lazy patterns on the cotton of Hyunjin’s t-shirt.

“Wondering what your favorite color was.”

Jisung barks out a laugh. “Really?”

“Yes.” No. Not really. It’s not that he thinks Jisung won’t understand, it’s that he’s afraid Jisung will understand _too well_. He’ll see right through Hyunjin, get to the core of him, on the inside. And Hyunjin doesn’t think Jisung will like what he finds there, buried deep. All the secret thoughts Hyunjin has ever had, put up on display. It would probably make Jisung hate him forever.

“Tell me,” Hyunjin says, dragging a lazy hand through Jisung’s hair. “What is it?”

“Orange,” Jisung says, “Bright orange. Like candy.”

“You would pick the most obnoxious color,” Hyunjin teases, which earns him a soft little punch in the ribcage.

“I hate you,” Jisung grumbles. “What’s yours?”

“Red,” Hyunjin intones immediately, “like blood. Because I am a man.”

Jisung laughs, sweet and bubbling. “Stupid.”

“Yeah,” Hyunjin agrees. "Stupid."

It’s quiet, save for the muffled conversation filtering through from downstairs, Minho’s hacking laugh. Hyunjin closes his eyes, lets himself bask in the simple joy of having nothing to do and nowhere to be. He dozes, passing between planes of sleep and consciousness. Jisung hums, the sun creeps across the messy sheets, and Hyunjin falls into half-mast dreams about cat-eyed boys with sparkling earrings who hold his hand and laugh as the sun turns their skin gold.

_ _____

There is an attempt that night to cook dinner as a cohesive unit. It fails spectacularly since out of the nine of them, only Minho, Hyunjin, and Chan can claim any competency in the kitchen. The others – “Lix, put the knife down. The knife. On the table. Seungmin, stop doing that to Jeongin. Jisung, it’s just fish, it won’t hurt y- _on the table, _Yongbok.” – are virtually useless. Hyunjin redoes nearly all of the tasks he delegates and the dish is almost ruined upwards of a dozen times but he can’t bring himself to mind. It’s been so long since they were able to be like this all nine of them together and Hyunjin has missed it terribly. All the bickering and the chaos, the shouting and play-fighting. Chan’s reassurances, Minho’s cackling laughter, Yongbok’s thick accent. The ebb and flow as they compensate and adjust to each other, nine people sharing the same space as easy as breathing.

_Family, _Hyunjin thinks, and the name sits right in his mouth.

They eat on the back porch, sharing bowls and chopsticks and sticky soju. The stars are out and the wind tastes like sea salt as they feed each other and hold hands and throw grains of rice. Jisung’s battered guitar is met with tipsy excitement and they start up a rowdy, tuneless chorus, relishing in the opportunity to be as ugly and off-key as they please. 

They stay for hours. Changbin and Yongbok are the first to go, giggling and dragging each other off into the starlight. Jeongin, ever the lightweight, gets too drunk and drowsy to stand up. Seungmin escorts him to bed, arm around his waist. Minho follows not long after, collecting empty soju bottles as he goes.

Chan picks up Jisung’s discarded guitar, picks at the strings. Although Hyunjin can’t place the melody, it makes Jisung smile, soft and slow like glowing embers. 

“You remember,” he preens, chin resting on the tops of his knees.

“I remember everything you write,” Chan tells him.

“Hyung,” Jisung whines, yanking the hood of his sweatshirt down over his eyes. Already rosy from the soju, his cheeks go dark pink. “Don’t be sappy.”

“It’s brilliant,” Chan tells him earnestly, “The best thing you’ve ever written.”

Chan’s always been generous with his compliments, but there’s a note of something different in this one. Some unspoken emphasis. Hyunjin can tell by the way Jisung’s face hardens that he’s picked up on it, too. “Hyung.”

“It should go on the next-”

“No,” Jisung says, sharp and fast as throwing a knife. “We’re not having this discussion again.”

Chan is undeterred by Jisung’s crackling anger. “It’s a good song, Jisung.”

Jisung glowers at him. “I don’t care.”

Although Hyunjin’s grown accustomed to the occasional cold war between the two of them, he can tell from the jagged lines of Jisung’s shoulders that this argument runs deeper. In an attempt to ease some of the tension, Hyunjin inserts himself into the conversation. “What’s it about, Jisung?”

“Nothing,” Jisung says tersely, still glaring at Chan. “Just a stupid love song.” With that, he knocks back the rest of his soju and stands up, wiping angrily at his mouth. “I’m going to bed.”

“C’mon, Sungie,” Chan protests, jumping to his feet and reaching for Jisung, “I’m sorry. I take it back.”

It’s a testament to how pissed Jisung is that he swats Chan’s hand away from him. He throws one unreadable look over his shoulder at Hyunjin and storms inside. The screen door slams behind him. Hyunjin jumps.

“What was _that_ about?” He asks, bewildered.

Chan, still frozen in the act of reaching for Jisung’s sleeve, drops his arm and sighs. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“I’ll say,” Hyunjin agrees. He’s mildly impressed, despite himself. “I thought I was the only person he ever got that angry at.”

Chan fishes a box of cigarettes out of his pockets and offers one to Hyunjin with a wry smile. “We’re all capable of bringing Han Jisung’s wrath down upon our heads.”

Hyunjin laughs as he accepts the cigarette. “Guess I’m not so special after all.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong,” Chan says. He takes a moment to light Hyunjin’s cigarette and then his own, hand cupped around the flame to keep it from going out. “You’ve always been his exception.”

“What do you mean?”

Chan doesn’t answer right away, considering Hyunjin with a clinical gaze from his place on the railing. Accustomed to Chan’s long silences, Hyunjin smokes his way through most of his cigarette. Each exhale hangs suspended in front of his face for a moment like a pale phantom before the wind picks it up and carries it away. Somewhere inside the house, Woojin is singing something high and sweet.

“Because he forgives you unconditionally,” Chan says eventually. When Hyunjin looks up, he jabs his cigarette at him. “No matter what you do, Jisung would pick you. Every single time. He wouldn’t even have to think about it.”

Hyunjin blinks, mystified. “Pick me for what?”

He waits, but Chan’s only response is a rueful sort of smile. Once he’s finished his cigarette, he drops the butt in his empty bottle, tugs on Hyunjin’s hair, and leaves him with nothing but his ghosts. 

____ 

Hyunjin does not sleep well that night and wakes the next day to sheets of rain lashing against his windows, pounding on the roof like bullets. He’s the first one up and he struggles dutifully to get the coffee maker to obey. There aren’t enough mugs for nine people, but he manages to scrounge some bowls from the cupboards. There are also eggs and some American bacon in the fridge. Hyunjin coaxes a flame out of the crotchety old gas oven and heats butter on the frying pan.

Jeongin appears, sleepy and a little hungover, mumbling a soft ‘good-morning hyung’ as he takes his coffee, filling it with lots of milk, lots of sugar. He doesn’t have much to say, fingers wrapped around his mug, eyes half-closed, but his presence is a comfort regardless. Hyunjin cracks two eggs into the sizzling frying pan, the rain streams from the gutters. There’s a rumble of distant thunder.

Yongbok shows up soon after in Changbin’s hoodie and boxers, wrapping his arms around Hyunjin’s waist and peering over his shoulder. He’s warm and smells like his sweet body wash.

“Not ready yet,” Hyunjin tells him. Yongbok hums and squeezes Hyunjin tighter before retreating to the kitchen table and his own mug of coffee, joining the warm, companionable silence.

The others trickle in one by one over the next half hour, drawn by the smell of food and soft conversation. Chan and Jisung come down together, and although they seem to be over their argument, Hyunjin hasn’t been able to shake _he wouldn’t even have to think about it_. He averts his eyes and focuses on making Minho’s eggs – yokes runny, whites cooked all the way through – as Jisung sidles up to him. He’s freshly showered, little beads of water tracking down his temples, hair drying black and shiny. His duvet cover is wrapped around his shoulders.

“I’m hungry,” he informs Hyunjin.

“That’s nice,” Hyunjin says, “These are for Minho.”

Jisung makes a whining noise that once upon a time, Hyunjin would have found infuriating. It’s only sort of annoying now. (This is called progress.) “But I’m going to starve to death.”

“Good riddance,” Seungmin says in passing as he pulls the milk out of the fridge. Jisung gestures rudely at him. Seungmin sticks out his tongue.

“Children,” Chan says from the sidelines. His tone is frigidly pleasant and they leap apart immediately, Seungmin throwing one last exaggerated glare over his shoulder as if to say _see what you’ve done?_ Jisung wrinkles his nose at him and turns back to Hyunjin, eyes all round and hopeful.

“No.”

“But you're so good at cooking,” Jisung pleads, “you know how to make them just right. I’d ruin it, I always ruin them. You never ruin my eggs.”

As see-through as this little tactic is, it’s also extraordinarily effective. Hyunjin relents begrudgingly, shaking his spatula at Jisung.

“After Minho.”

“Hyunjin is the best,” Jisung sings, standing up on his tiptoes to press a soft kiss to Hyunjin’s cheek. It stings a little on the inside, a good-bad hurt Hyunjin has come to associate with Jisung’s touch. 

It rains the whole day, but that’s fun too. The rain brings thunder, which brings a power outage, which causes Yongbok, Chan and Jisung to lose their minds. They speed around the house like feral cats, screeching at each other and knocking over furniture. Seungmin is forced to intervene after Chan and Jisung collide and almost give each other concussions, but his suggestion of team-wide man-hunt rapidly devolves into a lawless warzone. Within the first fifteen minutes, Hyunjin nearly gets his lights knocked out rounding the corner on an unsuspecting Changbin and Chan falls down the stairs twice. A lamp gets broken – “Seungmin did it!” “JEONGIN’S A FUCKING LIAR, I DIDN’T TOUCH IT!” – and Yongbok gives himself a bloody nose running into a door.

Despite how difficult it is to keep track of teams in the dark, Hyunjin does rather well. As much as he loves his teammates – and he does, very dearly – he can admit that neither subtly or deceit rank very high among their skillsets. Kindness and compassion they have in spades. Wittiness and strength and bravery, yes. The capacity to make it down one dark hallway without screaming bloody murder? Not a chance.

There is one notable exception of course, the little asterisk at the bottom of all of Hyunjin’s pages, his unpredictable variable. The only person who could sneak up on Hyunjin, give him the jump. Outsmart him, again and again and again, the wily rabbit dancing around the fox.

“So slow, Jin-ah,” a voice sings in his ear, breathy and delighted, “Too slow!”

Hyunjin lashes out and his fingers just catch on the hem of a sweatshirt sleeve as Jisung’s disembodied laugh echoes down the dark hallway.

“Come catch me!”

Hyunjin follows it, all the way past the screams of his teammates, down the creaking, dusty stairs. Rain lashes against the siding as Hyunjin tracks Jisung down the stairs, out the kitchen, through the back porch. They’re out of bounds, both of them, but it doesn’t matter. It’s not a game anymore, not really, and the feeling growing in Hyunjin’s stomach is still electrocuted with adrenaline, but it goes darker and deeper than that. Jisung runs, Hyunjin follows him. That is how it works, that is how it has always worked. Bright, clever little Jisung, skin glittering like stars, always three steps ahead, always just out of reach.

It used to make him angry. This stupid kid, this stupid tiny rapper boy from Incheon who talked so big, who ran his mouth all the goddamn time, could be so special. What made him so goddamn fucking _special? _Everyone loved him. Everyone fawned over him. Their little Jisungie, so sweet. So small. So brilliant in everything that he did, so impossible not to love. And none of them saw it. None of them could see what Hyunjin could see, what was so fucking obvious to him. All the broken pieces. The crooked smile, the gleam in his eye. Jisung wasn’t innocent. He wasn’t sweet. He had the same blood stains on his clothes, the same ragged jeans. The same hunger.

_So fucking special._

It’s pouring when Hyunjin catches Jisung. They get soaked right away, all the way through, skin and blood and bone, but the rain is warm. It reverberates to Hyunjin’s pounding heart as he grabs Jisung by the wrist, yanks him back.

“Caught you,” he says, raining filling his mouth. “I caught you, Jisung.”

“You did,” Jisung says. His hair is plastered to his temples, dark as ink. “I knew you would.”

“Yeah?”

“You always do,” Jisung says. His eyes are dark. Endless. Hyunjin gets dizzy looking into them, loses sense of direction. He can feel Jisung’s pulse under the thin, delicate skin of his wrist. It’s fast, like a hummingbird. “You always find me, every time. Even when I’m trying to get lost.”

His words are senseless to Hyunjin. He shakes his head, sending rainwater flying. They’re standing close, too close, and Hyunjin’s having trouble thinking straight. He looks and sees two Jisungs in front of him, one a phantom image, the inverse imprint sealed into the backs of his eyelids like looking at a bright light for too long. He sees Jisung at sixteen, his shaky hands. Small, underfed, fingers still stained with nicotine, bruises on his ribs. Sees the kid who made him so fucking angry, who raged against all his uneven parts, jagged and tearing, the kid who tried to rip out his throat. Sees the boy that kid has grown into, still small, still thin, but he holds his ground and his fingers, when Hyunjin holds them, do not tremble. Clever hands, clever smile, clever cat eyes. Completely familiar under Hyunjin’s hands, every part of him.

_Too different, _they always said, but the truth is, they’re too similar. Two sides of the same coin, they’re variations on the same theme. Old bruises, rotten homes, too many nights spent sleepless and wishing someone would find them. _Bite the hand that beat you. _

“Jisung,” Hyunjin says, and it sounds just as helpless out loud as it did in his head. Pathetic. Pleading. _Jisungjisungjisung. _He finds himself unable to articulate the riptide of emotions welling inside him. Thunder shakes the ground beneath them, the rain soaks into Hyunjin’s skin, and Jisung’s eyes glow like beacons.

“Hyunjinnie,” Jisung whimpers. Hyunjin takes one step closer. Settles his hand in the crook of Jisung’s waist. He feels like he’s been caught in some gravitational force, some unbreakable pull dragging him into Jisung.

Just as he’s moments from the unthinkable, teetering on the edge of a precipice with Jisung trembling under his fingers, bird song heart stumbling along in his pulse, there’s a loud shout from above them. It’s Yongbok, hanging out of the attic window and waving furiously.

“What are you doing?” he yells, cupping his hands around his mouth. “The game is over! We’ve been looking for you for ages!”

“We got bored!” Jisung shouts back, “You’re too easy to catch.”

Yongbok yells something unintelligible into the house. There’s a slight commotion from within, the sound of someone running down stairs. A window on the second floor is thrown open and Jeongin sticks his head out, looking fairly cross. “That’s because you’re an asshole and you cheat.” 

“You can’t cheat at manhunt,” Jisung and Hyunjin say at the same time, which earns them a supremely disgusted look from Jeongin. Hyunjin laughs.

A third window opens further down on the second floor and an annoyed-looking Changbin appears. He shoots Hyunjin and Jisung a curious look before craning his neck back to yell at Jeongin and Yongbok. “Hey morons, shut the fuck up.”

“You shut up,” Yongbok calls back, sticking out his tongue when Changbin mimes punching him. Changbin disappears from view for a few moments, and there’s the sounds of someone running up flight of stairs. Yongbok screams, high and delighted, and is dragged from view.

“Will you stop yelling and come the fuck inside, you fucking freaks?” Seungmin complains, sticking his head out of the kitchen window. Catching sight of Hyunjin and Jisung, his expression does something extremely complicated, flickering from confusion to concern to something unreadable as his eyes drop to their entwined fingers. “What are you doing out there?” 

“Learning Latin?” Jisung offers. 

“Well, stop it,” Seungmin tells them, “Get inside before you get struck by lightning and ruin my vacation.”

“Okay, mom,” Hyunjin says, mostly for Jisung’s benefit. It earns him a happy laugh, only half-audible under the pouring rain. They make their way back to the screen door where Seungmin is waiting for them with towels.

“Morons,” He says and throws a towel over Hyunjin’s head, ruffling it furiously. He’s smiling when he pulls back, but it’s an odd smile. Sort of a sad one.

“Sorry, Minnie,” Hyunjin says. He means it, even if he’s not really sure what he’s apologizing for. Seungmin pats his cheek, expression fond.

“You’re so sweet,” He tells Hyunjin, “Be careful.”

_Careful with what? _Hyunjin thinks as Seungmin wanders off to yell at Yongbok for leaving his shoes in the doorway where anyone could trip on them.

___

Day four blooms with plans to take the van into Busan proper. They leave late in the morning after a long, meandering breakfast. Changbin takes the driver’s seat and Jeongin sits beside him, directing them into the depths of the city. He’s a thorough if not self-conscious tour-guide, pointing out the public library, his middle high school, the mall he got caught pick-pocketing.

“I was stupid,” he explains, eyes glazed over with memories, “You’re never supposed to double-dip in the same month, you know, the guards will still remember your face. But I was desperate for cash and there were always ladies with big purses.” He leans his head against the window. “They were waiting for me. The second I slipped up, six of them were on me.”

"You got arrested?” Yongbok gawks.

“Almost,” Jeongin says with a wry kind of smile, “While we were waiting for the police to show up, there was a fire in the food court and all the alarms went off. I managed to get away while everyone was evacuating.”

“Wow,” Chan whistles, “That’s a lucky fucking break, Jeongin.”

“I know,” Jeongin gestures for Changbin to turn left, “I knew I wasn’t ever going to be that lucky again, so I told myself I was going to stop pick-pocketing. I didn’t know how else I was going to make money, but that same day I passed a flyer for auditions into JYP.” He shrugs. “And that was that.”

“Didn’t realize you were such a hardened criminal, Innie,” Hyunjin laughs.

Jeongin shakes his head. “Not really. Pick-pocketing isn’t difficult. You just gotta have good timing.”

“And a cute face,” Jisung coos, leaning past Hyunjin to ruffle Jeongin’s hair, “I’d let you steal every won from my pocket.”

“Hyung,” Jeongin protests, batting Jisung’s hand away, “You’re so weird.”

They spend the day in the city. It’s much prettier than Seoul, all candy-colored buildings stacked on top of each other like gifts. There are merchants selling hotteok that steams in their hands, gooey chapssaltteok, shaved ice, lime-and-guava sodas.

“So many bright colors,” Seungmin admires, as they pass a lemon-yellow storefront displaying rows and rows of pastel blouses and shoes. “No wonder you like pink, Innie.”

Jeongin beams. Hyunjin’s never seen him so content in his own skin--he stands tall and walks with his chin up, speaking confidently with vendors in thick satoori. It’s such a dramatic metamorphosis from the skittish, fearful kid he is in Seoul that Hyunjin’s heart twists with regret.

_This is how you should have grown up, _He thinks ruefully, watching Jeongin direct Chan down an alleyway, _This is who you deserve to be._

His regret is pointless and he knows Jeongin would laugh and call him ridiculous for having such thoughts, but bitterness pools in his mouth regardless. He raised Jeongin and he would give up the world to see his little brother live a normal life, free from the relentless stress and pressure and expectations and cruelties of an idol. They’ve had years to come to terms with having their childhoods ripped away from them and for the most part, Hyunjin is at peace with it. But watching the way Jeongin’s eyes light up as he falls in love with his city all over again, he can’t help but mourn for the kid he should have been.

On the way back to the house, Changbin suggests having a bonfire on the beach. Unsurprisingly, it’s an extremely popular idea.

Even though Minho pretends to be leery of the whole event, he’s secretly as in love with being reckless and young as the rest of them are. When he makes a pit-stop at the grocery store to purchase alcohol, it takes the combined efforts of both himself and Changbin to carry everything back to the van.

“Did you buy the entire aisle?” Seungmin inquires, looking mildly horrified as they unload the forest of hard liquor onto the kitchen counter.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Minnie,” Minho sniffs, “We couldn’t afford the whole aisle.”

“So you settled on one of everything?” Chan laughs, tugging playfully on Minho's hair. 

“Something like that,” Minho bats Chan's hand away. 

“Right,” Seungmin drawls, looks vaguely sick, “And we’re planning on drinking all of this? Tonight?”

“Don’t worry, Minnie,” Hyunjin holds up a bottle of pinot noir, “We know you don’t like hard alcohol, so we got you your old lady wine.”

“Hey,” Seungmin complains, smacking Hyunjin, "Listen, asshole, it’s not old lady wine, it’s for cultured people with taste. You freak-shows wouldn't understand.”

Hyunjin rolls his eyes, but it’s all in good fun. Everyone’s in exceptionally high spirits tonight, even rowdier and louder than usual as they head down to the beach where Jeongin and Jisung have miraculously started a fire without burning down everything in sight.

It takes them almost no time at all to break out the alcohol. It’s tradition to take the first shot together. Jeongin hands out the red plastic solo cups, the kind Hyunjin’s seen in American teenage dramas, and Jisung pours them all shots of fireball. Chan counts them off loud and rowdy, and they throw back the alcohol.

After that, it’s a lot of drinking all at once. They play a few rounds of an alcoholic duck-duck-goose. Hyunjin does several ride-or-die shots with Yongbok, Seungmin, Changbin, and Jeongin. Minho nurses his old-lady drink and pretends to be fed up with their shenanigans while simultaneously keeping a watchful eye over all of them.

Truth-or-dare makes a customary appearance. Changbin is dared to take a body shot off Yongbok, an event that leaves Changbin glassy-eyed and red as wine as he leans away from Yongbok’s exposed collar, wiping at his mouth and cursing Minho’s entire family. Minho takes a shot of fireball and Chan runs naked half-way down the beach. Jeongin does an improvised rendition of Go Go and after some heavy complaining, Seungmin kisses Minho.

And then he dares Jisung to give Hyunjin a lap dance. 

Jisung doesn’t even hesitate. He’s in one of his moods, face all hungry for trouble and attention, slinking around the bonfire towards Hyunjin like a cat. The firelight catches on all his edges, the slope of his nose, the curve of his mouth, the hollow of his golden throat. His eyes, when they fix on Hyunjin, are dark, heavy-lidded. The corner of his mouth goes up and Hyunjin’s blood surges in his veins.

“You okay with this, Hyunjinnie?” He asks, and the way he draws out Hyunjin’s name sends chills up his spine. It feels like a challenge and it makes something shift inside Hyunjin, something dark and heady that makes his heart speed up and heat spike in the pit of his gut. Jisung smirks at him as the song ends and his crooked smile goes right to Hyunjin’s soul like a bolt of heat. _Please, Hyunjnnie. _

“Bring it on, Jisungie,” Hyunjin taunts him. Jisung tucks a finger under Hyunjin’s chin and tips it up.

“Eyes on me, okay?” he says and waits for Hyunjin’s slow nod before calling for Chan to cue the music.

Although he’s always claimed disinterest, Jisung’s had a knack for dancing from the start. He’s graceful and lithe and lean and knows how to use his hips. He takes things slow, placing Hyunjin’s hands on his waist and rolling his hips experimentally. Hyunjin’s blood spikes as Jisung curls down into him, dark fox eyes fixed on Hyunjin. He rolls his hips again, pushing Hyunjin’s thighs apart and settling carefully into the space between them, knees pressing into Hyunjin’s hips to give himself leverage. His hands skim up Hyunjin’s arms, up his neck, through his hair and he tugs lightly as he moves against Hyunjin, gaining rhythm and speed. NCT’s Seventh Sense plays, heavy and thick as molasses as Jisung presses down, mouthing the lyrics as he tips Hyunjin’s head back and runs his fingers down his throat.

Hyunjin’s hands twitch against Jisung’s sides and Jisung lets out a soft, insidious laugh that sinks all the way into Hyunjin’s bones like gasoline and sets them on fire. Almost involuntarily, Hyunjin presses himself up against Jisung, rolling his own hips. Jisung grins that wicked grin of his, pulling Hyunjin up, up into his sweetness, the tequila on his tongue, the salt in his skin. He doesn’t give Hyunjin any warning before he pulls off his shirt, and Hyunjin is caught up in a rush of headiness so strong when he catches sight of Jisung’s golden collarbones that he feels dizzy. Collarbones, shoulder blades, perfect angles and planes, and then Jisung’s arms are around Hyunjin’s neck and he presses their foreheads together until all Hyunjin can see is Jisung, his dark eyes, the glint of his parted mouth.

He can hear his teammates hollering, can hear Seungmin screaming about going blind, knows there are at least four cameras recording this moment, but it’s as if all of that is filtering in through a thick curtain. All he can see, all he can taste and smell and feel, all he can think about, is Jisung. Beautiful, golden, fiery Jisung, whispering _open your eyes_ over and over against the shell of Hyunjin’s ear.

When it’s over, Hyunjin’s half-expecting Jisung to get to his feet, dust off his shirt, laugh and pretend nothing happened. Instead, he stays on Hyunjin’s lap until the last phantom echoes of the song have faded away. More out of instinct than rational thought, Hyunjin reaches up to cup his face, running his thumb along Jisung’s cheek. He gets a soft sigh in response and the heat fades out of Jisung’s gaze, replaced with something quieter. Like lightning, Jisung leans forward and presses his lips to Hyunjin’s cheek. Before Hyunjin has a chance to react, Jisung is gone, dropping in an over-the-top bow as the others burst into applause. Hyunjin is left with his skin tingling and a cavernous ache in his chest.

___

Day five, they do nothing at all. It’s one of those days where they wake up alone, have breakfast in twos and threes, and end up all back in the same bed by the afternoon. Hyunjin doesn’t even know who’s room they’re in, just that they’re all in it. It’s a small bed, but they’ve fit eight people into tinier spaces. They pile on top of each other, dragging blankets and pillows with them. Hyunjin ends up with Yongbok on his left, Seungmin on his right, one leg hooked around Chan’s, his fingers threaded with Jisung’s. It’s an old tradition of theirs, these dog-pile naps, but it’s been a little while and there’s some light bickering as they relearn the shapes and sizes, fit themselves back into each other’s edges.

They chatter to each other, voices low and rough from sleep, catching up on the details of themselves, happy just to be with each other. Everything is blurred edges and soft voices, Seungmin humming soft melodies, Changbin’s deep grumble, Yongbok sighing as he falls asleep on Hyunjin’s chest.

Hyunjin’s teammates slip one by on into unconsciousness as the sun tracks down the wall. Hyunjin watches the rays catch on the floating dust motes and listens to the sounds of his teammates’ breathes, the steady rise and fall of their chests. Time slows, turns to honey and Hyunjin drifts in and out of a light doze, warm and safe and thinking of nothing.

Not even the weight of his teammates can keep the buzzing at bay forever. It returns to his veins little by little, the insidious gnawing. Itching. A hundred thousand microscopic thorns, tearing away at him inside, forcing him up, out, away from his friends. Yongbok stirs, disturbed by the sudden lack of body heat, wriggling across the mattress until he’s pressed flush against Seungmin. Hyunjin smiles as Seungmin wraps an arm around Yongbok, overcome in the moment with the weight of his love for his friends. It’s almost enough to send him crawling back into bed, but the moment passes and the prickling returns full-force.

He slips down the stairs on silent feet, wandering over to the screen door to stare out into the yard. Thoughts chew away at the back of his head, flashes of memories: an empty dorm, cheap fairy lights hung above the door. Jisung in Hyunjin’s oversized hoodie and face-mask, shaking snow out of his hair. _Stay with me. _

He doesn’t have to wait long before there’s the tell-tale sound of bare footprints on the wooden floor. Jisung stands at the base of the stairs, ruffled from sleep.

“I woke up and you were gone.”

“Sorry,” Hyunjin says and only sort of means it. “Come to the beach with me?”

Jisung says ‘yes’ without hesitating, and they automatically look around for some cameraman or manager to ask before Hyunjin remembers that it doesn’t matter. No one is waiting for them, no one is expecting them. They are free to come and go where and when they please.

The sun is setting, but the asphalt is still sticky and warm beneath their feet. They pass a man on his bike with milk in the basket, and a young girl walking her dog. Chatter from the open restaurants rises from the little town below them as they pick their way down the slope towards the ocean, little lights from lanterns flickering in the warm breeze picking up from the sea.

The beach is mostly empty save for a handful of older couples, but Hyunjin still leads Jisung off to the edge of the shoreline. There are some shorebirds rummaging around in the sand; Hyunjin scares them off with an exaggerated rendition of My Pace. Jisung laughs with that cherry cola laugh of his, wading out into the ocean until the water is up to his ankles. He looks lovely in the colors still bleeding from the sunset, skin all gold and blurred, hair wind-ruffled and curling in the salt air, face bare and soft and content.

He’s beautiful. It’s not the first time Hyunjin’s thought it—Jisung’s always been beautiful. But it weighs different, miles away from Seoul and the cameras. Away from their responsibilities, away from Hwang Hyunjin and Han Jisung. Here, where they can just be Jisung and Hyunjin, it sounds different in his mouth. It feels different, watching Jisung, tastes different in his mouth, the way the sun bounces off his collarbones, the slope of his throat. It makes Hyunjin think crazy thoughts. Like how it would feel to put his mouth there. What Jisung’s skin would taste like. What he would sound like.

“Jinnie,” Jisung says, whining a little and making grabbing motions with his hands.

Hyunjin goes, caught in Jisung’s hurricane. Jisung threads their hands together, smiling at Hyunjin. It’s shy, which is so completely unlike him. It reminds Hyunjin of the first time they met. Because Jisung, for all of his bluffing and exaggerated swagger, does not get along well with strangers. They make him nervous. Insecure. He has been told his whole life that he is too much by people who don’t know him, has spent all of his life fighting to prove them all wrong. 

“What’re you thinking about?” Jisung asks, playing absentmindedly with Hyunjin’s fingers. He was so fidgety. Always had to be moving. Restless hands, restless mind. This too, Hyunjin understands now. “You got that look on your face that means you’re thinking too hard again.”

“I was thinking about the first time we met,” Hyunjin admits. Jisung coos, half-mockingly, half-not, reaching up to touch Hyunjin’s face.

“So sentimental.”

“Not really.” Hyunjin snips back, batting Jisung’s hand away. “I was thinking about how much I still hate you.”

Jisung laughs and leans into Hyunjin, soft hair tickling Hyunjin’s chin. “I hate you more.”

“Not possible,” Hyunjin declares, which gets another giggle out of Jisung. It’s been a while since Hyunjin’s seen him this soft, this relaxed. This moldable, pliable under Hyunjin’s hands, sweet like honey. The stress and pressures of the past months have taken their toll, sharpened Jisung’s edges. But there are no razor blades as he leans into Hyunjin, just the smell of his coconut shampoo. Hyunjin has missed this. Missed _them_. 

“Imagine if our past selves could see us now,” Jisung hums, stealing the thought right out of Hyunjin’s head, “Friends.”

“I think past me would throw a fit.”

“So exhausting,” Jisung says, “all that fighting. All I ever wanted was for you to notice me.”

“Really?” Hyunjin asks, startled, “I thought you really hated me.”

“Maybe at first,” Jisung says, “but after a while- I don’t know. I look back on it, and I think maybe I just always wanted your attention. Isn’t that dumb?”

_No, _Hyunjin thinks, _no, it’s not dumb at all. _Moved, he wraps an arm around Jisung’s waist. Tiny, lithe little Jisung, so small that Hyunjin could pick him up and carry him around and it wouldn’t cost a thing. “Well, now you have it even without annoying the hell out of me.”

Jisung makes a happy, contented noise at the back of his throat and it occurs to Hyunjin, quite abruptly, that they are totally alone. Their fellow beach-goers are just smudges in the distance, blurred by the salt and the twilight. It’s just Hyunjin, the ocean, and Jisung in his arms, close enough to trace the line of freckles across his nose, the pink flush down his round cheeks, the salt drying curls in his dark hair. Close enough that Hyunjin can smell the sun on Jisung’s golden skin, close enough that if Hyunjin really wanted, he could reach out and taste it.

Hyunjin thinks he maybe says Jisung’s name, thinks Jisung responds with his own, but there’s a rushing in his ears like the waves at his ankles, and his chest feels like it’s about to explode, and all he can see is Jisung’s heart in his eyes, right there where Hyunjin could take it.

And then someone calls their names.

It’s like ripping the ground right out from underneath them. Jisung and Hyunjin leap apart so fast that Hyunjin loses his balance, stumbles in the tide. When he looks to the beach with saltwater in his eyes, Minho is standing just beyond the reach of the waves, barefoot with unreadable eyes.

“Hyung,” Jisung says, and he sounds a lot like someone who’s just been caught doing something he shouldn’t, “You startled us.”

“We’re making dinner,” Minho says. His gaze, when it lands on Hyunjin, burns like ice. “You’re helping with prep, Sungie.”

It’s a sign that something is very wrong because Jisung doesn’t try to worm his way out of chores. He ducks out from Hyunjin’s arms and wades back towards the shore. He doesn’t look back at Hyunjin, but he doesn’t look at Minho either, trudging back towards the house with his gaze fixed firmly on the ground.

Minho looks at Hyunjin for a long time with that ice-shard expression and then turns back towards the house. Hyunjin trails several feet behind, trying very hard not to think of anything at all. Ahead, he hears Minho whisper something unintelligible. Jisung laughs. Hyunjin tries not to feel it like being struck in the chest.

It’s not really a secret that Minho and Jisung have slept together, that they have been doing it for quite a long time. They tried to hide it at first, but it’s hard to hide anything in a dorm so small. Both of them swore it was nothing but sex, no feelings, no relationship, nothing long term, but it was hard to believe. There was a running pool on how long it would take them to confess. According to Seungmin, there was a considerable amount of money in the pot, but Hyunjin had never really been interested in it. At first, it had been out of protest against Jisung. Hyunjin’s not sure what’s stopping him now.

_All I ever wanted was for you to notice me. _

Hyunjin pauses with one foot on the doorstep. Minho and Jisung do not wait for him, or even seem to notice his absence, letting the screen door swing behind them. Moments later, Hyunjin can hear their voices joining the white noise floating out through the kitchen windows of the rest of their team making dinner. He sits down on the roughed-up porch steps. Feelings from the beach creep up into his throat against his will, and he flashes back to that one moment, holding Jisung up in his arms. He can’t get the image of Jisung out of his head, golden and pliant and gorgeous. Can’t forget the way Jisung’s name felt like a prayer in his mouth, or the way Jisung whispered _Hyunjin_ like permission. Can’t stop wondering what it would have been like, if Minho hadn’t interrupted them. If they’d truly been alone.

He’s not sure how long he stays out on that porch, but eventually, the screen door opens. He looks up, expecting Yongbok or maybe Seungmin, but it’s Minho standing in the open door, hands in his pockets, backlit by the yellow streaming from the kitchen.

“Hyung,” Hyunjin says, startled.

“I realized you weren’t in the kitchen,” Minho says, “Just making sure.”

They all have it, the compulsive tic. _Nine or nothing._ “I’m still here.”

Minho nods. The screen door creaks as he shifts his weight. “I left the kitchen for two seconds and the kids ruined the stew. It’s going to take ages for them to scrape it together. I’m making a run to the convenience store. Tag along?”

“Uhh,” Hyunjin says. He knows he’s probably gawking a little, but he can’t help it. Four years together is a long time, and Minho’s as much Hyunjin’s big brother as Changbin or Woojin, but they’re not exactly close. Aside from some one-off dance lessons, Hyunjin’s not sure they’ve ever spent time exclusively in each other’s company. Not long ago, he would have chalked it up to incompatible personalities, but with the phantom taste of Jisung’s skin still hot on Hyunjin’s tongue, he’s not so sure.

“Hey,” Minho says, snapping Hyunjin back into the present. “Don’t overthink it. I’m not going to kill you.”

“That’s exactly what a murderer would say,” Hyunjin points out. Minho scoffs and rolls his eyes.

“Are you coming?”

“Why not?” Hyunjin says as he stands up, dusting off his jeans, “Today’s a good a day as any to die.”

They walk in silence most of the way to the store. It’s a nice night, warm with a good ocean breeze. Most of the streetlamps they pass have gone out, but the moon is round and full, bright against a backdrop of stars. They pass nests of fireflies, lighting up the shore grass like tiny, floating spirits. Hyunjin finds himself slowing, transfixed. Minho slows with him. It’s too dark to make out his expression, but Hyunjin can feel the quiet curiosity emanating from him.

“I’ve never seen so many fireflies in one place,” he explains.

“They were all over where I grew up,” Minho says, “We used to catch them in jars.”

“I thought you were raised in Gimpo.”

“In a tiny coastal village outside the city,” Minho explains, “It was a lot like this one, actually.”

“I didn’t know you lived by the ocean.”

Minho shrugs. “Not much to say. It was a shitty tourist town. Everyone who lived there year-round was poor.”

“Oh.”

“It wasn’t exactly the kindest to gay kids who wanted to sing and dance for a living,” Minho folds his hands over his head, “I left before my parents could kick me out.”

Hyunjin winces. He’s heard bits and pieces of this story before, but the clinical way Minho tells it is as difficult to stomach as always. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. They were shitty. Living on my own was the best decision I ever made,” Minho pauses, “Besides meeting Chan, I guess.”

“Do they support you now?”

“My parents?” Minho lets out a barbed laugh, “I haven’t spoken to them since I was fourteen. As far as I know, they think I’m dead.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Like I said, there’s nothing to be sorry about. They’re terrible people.” Minho starts walking away. Hyunjin hurries to catch up with him. Once they’re shoulder-to-shoulder, Minho throws him a side-long glance. “How about you? You were raised by your extended family, right?”

“My aunt and uncle.”

“How do they feel about you being an idol?”

Hyunjin kicks a loose stone. It skitters up the road and off into the grass. “No idea. I haven’t spoken to them since I left, either.”

“Ah,” Minho offers him a fist-bump, “Stray kid.”

Hyunjin accepts the fist-bump with a laugh. It’s a bad joke done in bad taste, but that doesn’t make it less true. When Chan had built his team, he’d built it out of broken parts. Something about fractured bone healing stronger. “Chan really outdid himself with us.”

“Oh, you know how he is,” Minho flicks a hand, “he loves the dramatic irony of it all, the big oaf.”

Hyunjin’s chest grows warm with affection. “He does.”

The little bell jingles cheerfully above their heads as Minho pushes into the convenience store. They’re met with a blast of stale a/c, the buzzing of fluorescent lights, and the characteristic smell of fake strawberries and salt. A wizened old man pokes his head around hanging wracks of Hi-Chew and shrimp crisps, squints at them suspiciously from behind a pair of tiny, smudged glasses.

“Awfully late for you fellas to be out and about.”

“We were making dinner and our little brothers tried to help,” Minho says easily, “we’re improvising.”

The store clerk makes an unsatisfied noise and retracts from view. Minho quirks his eyebrow at Hyunjin and heads towards the back of the store.

“Why do they always think we’re going to steal their stupid snacks?” Hyunjin complains in a low voice as Minho sorts through the flavored tteokbokki. “It’s like this everywhere I go. You know the 7/11 guy back home follows me around the store sometimes?”

“We look like delinquents,” Minho says, “and to be fair, I used to steal stuff all the time.”

“Me too,” Hyunjin says and Minho throws him a conspiratorial smile.

They buy enough food for themselves and their seven teammates. The store clerk spends their entire check-out process glaring at the two of them.

“Haven’t seen you folks around before.”

“We’re here on vacation,” Minho says, “Your town is lovely.”

“’s little early for tourists,” The man squints, “I think I seen you on TV. You from one of them idol groups?”

“Oh gosh, I wish,” Minho claps a hand to his cheek, “It was the only thing I wanted when I was younger. I even auditioned for a few companies.”

“Didn’t make it?”

“Can’t dance for the life of me.”

Hyunjin doubles over behind the counter, choking on a laugh. Minho pats him lightly on the back, serene smile on his face as he passes over a handful of bills.

“Better that you didn’t,” the man says, “It’s not right what they do to those boys, dressing ‘em up and putting ‘em in make-up. Turns them all to fags.”

The laughter dies in Hyunjin’s throat. He looks to Minho, expecting him to lash out in the cold, calculated fury he used whenever a stranger tried to mock his teammates. But Minho’s face is blank, and when he speaks, it’s devoid of any emotion whatsoever. 

“What a shame.”

“Really is,” The cashier hands over the bags and receipt, “Good luck with your meal.”

“Thank you,” Minho says, and his tone is flat as cardboard. Hyunjin watches in shock as he turns on his heels and heads towards the door, joints mechanical and stiff. Anger and indignation rise to the roof of Hyunjin’s mouth, but before he can unload the barrage of insults tangled up on the top of his tongue, there’s a hand in the back of his hair, dragging him forcefully away from the register.

Minho waits until they’re out of ear-shot before he lets go, shoving Hyunjin painfully away from him.

“What the fuck?” Hyunjin hisses, rubbing the back of his neck and scowling at Minho, “That fucking hurt, you dick.”

“Good,” Minho says, “That’s what you get for being stupid.”

“Standing up for you is stupid?”

“If it gets you punished it is,” Minho snaps. When Hyunjin can only gape at him, he makes a big show out of rolling his eyes, “What the fuck do you think would have happened if he recognized us, Hyunjinnie? You think JYP will be happy if he hears rumors that some of his idols are faggots?”

“You think he’d kick us out?” Hyunjin blinks, “It’s 2019, hyung. I know the entertainment industry is outdated, but not _that_ outdated. Our fans would riot.”

“You’re so fucking naïve,” Minho scoffs, “JYP wouldn’t throw us out because we were gay; he’d turn our lives into a living hell.” Minho bares his teeth at Hyunjin in a horrible, humorless grin, “You think having four come-backs in a year is hard? Try having zero.”

Hyunjin’s stomach drops. _All their work, for nothing._ “He wouldn’t.”

“He would, and you know it,” The terrifying brightness in Minho dulls, “Imagine what that would do to Chan.”

Hyunjin doesn’t have to imagine. “It would kill him.”

"JYP wouldn’t just go after me and you,” Minho says, “He’d come for our whole team.”

“Just because I called a guy out for being homophobic?”

Minho shrugs. “Ironic, isn’t it? Our loyalty is our greatest strength, but it’s also our greatest weakness. The company knows we love each other too much. They use it to keep us in line.”

Hyunjin laughs, dry and sardonic. “I didn’t know you cared about me that much.”

It’s supposed to be a joke, but it must come out wrong because Minho falters. When Hyunjin turns around, he’s standing in the middle of the road, expression crumpled.

“Jinnie,” Minho whispers, and he sounds genuinely hurt.

“I was joking, hyung,” Hyunjin says, reaching for him, “I didn’t mean it.”

“No, look,” Minho takes a breath, “I- you’re right. I’ve been a bad hyung to you. And I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay-”

“Hyunjin,” Minho says, and Hyunjin cuts himself off. After a moment, Minho continues.

“I’ve been a bad hyung,” Minho emphasizes, “I know that. I’ve been ignoring you. And it’s not fair. It’s just- Jisung and I-”

Hyunjin, very abruptly, does not want to hear anymore. He holds up a hand, but Minho yanks it back down.

“We’re not sleeping together anymore.”

Braced for the worst, it takes a moment for his words to process in Hyunjin’s head. “Wait, what?”

“He broke it off with me months ago.”

“But-” Hyunjin stammers, “I thought-”

“It’s not like it was going to last forever,” Minho murmurs, “We both knew that. I think- I don’t know. I guess I just hoped- it doesn’t matter. The point is, I’ve been acting stupid and petty and jealous, and I’m sorry.”

“Did he-” Hyunjin swallows, “Did he tell you why?”

“Kind of,” Minho shrugs, “You know how he is. He hates hurting people. Something to do with it not being fair to me. Which is stupid. It’s not like we were in love, or anything,” Minho says, and it’s almost like he’s talking to himself, trying to convince himself, “I didn’t even want a real relationship. I know he didn’t, either. It was just a surprise. Totally out of the blue. I left for three days in January and everything was fine, and when I came back, it was over.”

_January. _Hyunjin’s stomach drops. He tastes soju, sweet and sticky on his tongue. A warm weight on his lap. Little white snowflakes caught in dark eyelashes. Jisung, panting and mewling against his mouth, begging softly into his ear. _Please, Hyunjin, please._ “Oh.”

Most of what he’s thinking must show on his face because Minho’s mouth turns down.

“Ah,” he says delicately, “I thought so.”

“It’s not what you think,” Hyunjin says, “It was just one time-”

“It’s never just one time,” Minho sighs, “Not with you.”

“Why does everyone keep saying that?” Hyunjin demands, caught in a flustered burst of frustration, “All of you, you’re always acting like I’m different. I’m not. I’m not special to him.”

“No?” Minho tips his head, “You know how hard I had to work to get his attention? How much effort I had to put in? All you ever had to do was walk in the room.”

Hyunjin looks away. _All I ever wanted was for you to notice me. _Minho mutter something under his breath, exasperated. “The two of you have been playing this game for years, Hyunjin. Aren’t you tired?” 

He’s hit with it all of a sudden, like a dead weight on his shoulders crushing him into the asphalt. All those years of fighting, violence and rage and teeth. Hiding it, faking it. Trading it for something else, for something angry and volatile. Pretending that taking Jisung apart over and over again was an act of hatred.

“He’s always looking at you,” Minho says, “Even when you’re not paying attention. It used to drive me fucking crazy. It still does, sometimes. But I’ve given up. I’m never going to be you.”

There’s an odd sensation creeping into Hyunjin’s hands. Pins and needles, like when he’s slept funny and cut off the circulation to his fingers. It’s been four years, and he feels like he’s breaking apart all over again. All the places Jisung has ever touched him, all the scars he’s cut with knives and teeth and fingernails; Hyunjin feels his stitches coming undone. Four years of healing, four years of getting over it, and it’s like his heart is sixteen and bleeding all over again. “He’s supposed to hate me.”

“This isn’t a Greek tragedy, Hyunjin,” Minho says all tired and exasperated, “You haven’t angered a petty god, you weren’t born with a curse, and the stars aren’t crossed against you. Neither of you are _supposed_ to feel anything. You’re just scared because you’re nineteen and you’ve never been in love before.”

The air rushes out of Hyunjin’s lungs in a great burst. He staggers. “I don’t feel so good.”

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Minho mutters, even as he beckons Hyunjin into his arms, “Come here, you stupid beanpole.”

He’s steady when Hyunjin falls into him under the weight of Hyunjin’s waterfall. He tugs on his hair with his characteristic barbed love, skin smelling like cloves and orange. “You’re gonna be alright, kid.”

“I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing.”

“I know,” Minho pats his cheek, “but between the two of you, you’ve made such a mess of this already that it’s nearly improbable that you’d make it worse.”

“Wow, I feel so much better,” Hyunjin mumbles into Minho’s collar, “You’re so good at this, hyung.”

Minho snorts. “If you wanted someone to cry with you and tell you everything’s going to be okay, you should’ve talked to Changbin.” He leans away from Hyunjin, prods him in the chest. “Your hyungs didn’t raise a little bitch. You’re stupid, and he’s miserable. Get your shit together and fix this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i warned u.


	2. ii. endings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jisung leans into him, damp hair pressing against his collarbone. “Please don’t make me sleep alone.”
> 
> “Okay,” Hyunjin says, and feels the tension leak out of Jisung’s shoulders. 
> 
> Sleeping next to Jisung isn’t as foreign as it should be. Jisung smells like he always does: honey and coconut. He feels like he always does under Hyunjin’s fingertips, warm and soft and small, a persistent weight on Hyunjin’s chest. His heartbeat is familiar too, fast and fluttering, a little bird in its cage. 
> 
> Hyunjin lays like that for a long time, staring up at the wooden slats of Yongbok’s bed, one hand running up and down the ridges of his spine. He feels Jisung’s breath stutter in his chest. A soft sob, so quiet and compressed it barely registers, works its way out of Jisung’s throat.
> 
> “I’ve got you,” Hyunjin murmurs. He presses his face into Jisung’s hair, takes a deep breath. “You’re safe, Jisung.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !! trigger warnings for discussion and depiction of the aftermath of physical abuse !! it's not too graphic, but there is quite a bit of it, so please keep yourselves safe <3

So the truth is, something happens over winter break.

It’s not really a break. They get Christmas off, they get New Years’ off, and then they get three days for the Korean New Year. It’s not much and it probably isn’t legal, but they’ve learned to take what they can get and not ask for more.

Minho goes home to visit his siblings. There are many of them, he has pictures on his phone: eight or nine or ten kids with the same soft eyes and slanted noses. He does not have pictures of his parents, but Hyunjin knows that they exist. A drugged-out mother, a gambling father. A tiny house with unreliable electricity and heating that used to get cut off in the winter because no one paid the bills. Minho’s pitiful stipend keeps his family warm and fed whenever he can manage it now. Chan tags along because sometimes Minho needs someone to be selfish for him. Seungmin goes to see family too--an older sister, her girlfriend, and a very obese pug, just outside the city proper. It’s an open invitation which Jeongin allows himself to be strong-armed into.

Yongbok and Changbin split their savings on a shitty hotel closer to the center of Seoul to enjoy the festivities together.

And Jisung—Jisung also goes home. This comes as a collective shock, because Jisung has never gone home. Not once, not in five years. He can barely be coaxed into talking about his life before JYP, let alone his family. Everything Hyunjin knows about Jisung’s past he’s collected in tiny bits and pieces, stumbled upon mostly by accident over years of living in the same space. His fluency in strange languages, the occasional allusion to a familiarity with violence, the way he startled at loud noises and cried out in his sleep. Little scraps of history that Hyunjin and the others have done their best to stitch into a patchy picture of trauma, abuse, and fear.

So Jisung goes home and he doesn’t let anyone talk to him about it, not even Chan. He leaves fifteen minutes after their last rehearsal, bidding them his farewell in the entry to their dorm, hair still soaked from his shower.

“You haven’t had dinner,” Seungmin says.

“I’ll eat at the station.”

“That’s not a very big bag,” Yongbok points out.

“I won’t be gone for long,” Jisung won’t make eye-contact with any of them. He keeps looking at his shoes – knock-off vans with the soles coming apart – hands wrapped tightly in the straps of his tiny duffle-bag. His knuckles are white and shaking.

“Jisung,” Hyunjin hears himself say. Across the room, Jisung looks up. His face is a mask of neutral disinterest, but Hyunjin is an expert at peeling Jisung’s layers to the all-consuming fear pooling under his surface.

Hyunjin knows that fear like his own skin. _Look, Jin, we match._

“We’ll see you in a few days,” he says, and it’s not so much a request as an order. _You will come back to us. You will come home._

Another day maybe, the commanding tone in Hyunjin’s voice would have elicited a fight, but in the dim light of a fading sun, Hyunjin swears he can see Jisung’s death-grip around his shoulder strap loosen. He nods, a brief, violent jerk of his chin, and then he’s gone.

The others trickle out in twos and threes over the course of the following hours. Seungmin tries one last time to convince Hyunjin to come with them, but Hyunjin declines.

“But it’s New Years,” Seungmin whines, “You can’t just be alone the whole holiday.”

“I’ll be okay, Minnie,” Hyunjin promises, squeezing Seungmin’s arm reassuringly, “I haven’t had the dorm to myself in months. It’ll be nice to have a break from all the noise.”

Seungmin gives him a hard look. “You hate being alone.”

“He’ll be fine, hyung,” Jeongin takes Seungmin by the elbow, navigates him towards the door, “Let him have his emo moment. He knows how to reach us if he needs to.”

Hyunjin nods and Seungmin finally, finally relents. Jeongin gives Hyunjin one last hug, wishes him a happy New Years, and then the apartment is empty and Hyunjin’s head is ringing with the silence.

The first night passes without incident. Hyunjin goes to the dance studio, lets himself in with the illegal key Minho keeps under his mattress. He takes his time warming up and eases himself into several long hours of practice. By the time he’s done, it’s past midnight and the studio is empty. There aren’t even any trainees haunting the hallways like half-conscious ghosts. Hyunjin walks home in his sweat-soaked t-shirt, sneakers skittering over the uneven layers of snow and ice.

His only source of light as he lets himself into the dorm are the fairy lights strung up in the living room. Knowing how much Hyunjin hated the dark, someone – probably Yongbok – must have turned them on before they left. It’s such a thoughtful gesture that Hyunjin’s heart twinges in his chest.

The apartment is unnervingly silent. Hyunjin tries to drown it out by playing loud music as he takes a shower and eats Changbin’s ramen, but he still goes to bed alone with a fierce ache in his chest.

The next morning is more of the same, although he deviates a little with a trip downtown in the frosty early morning, where the street venders are just beginning to set up for the three-day festival. Head filled with melancholy, Hyunjin wanders aimlessly through their midst until one of the old women takes pity on him and offers him a moon cake. It’s still warm, oozing red bean paste between the thin pastry layers. Hyunjin takes it from her and feels a lump rise in his throat.

The old woman must sense his sadness, because she asks, “Where’s your family, child?”

Hyunjin doesn’t have an answer for her. The heat from the cake burns through his gloves. “I’m alone.”

“Silly boy,” the old lady touches his chin with a gentle finger, tipping it up. Her eyes are warm and kind. “Do you have people who love you?”

Hyunjin thinks of his members. Changbin, quietly putting himself between Hyunjin and the airport crowds. Yongbok’s soft cuddles, Jeongin holding his hand under the table at the radio show. Minho’s bared teeth, Chan’s uncompromising faith, Changbin's strength. Seungmin, concerned to leave because he knows how much Hyunjin hated being alone. And Jisung. Tiny little Jisung, slipping into Hyunjin’s bed and wrapping himself around Hyunjin until the nightmares left.

“I do.”

“Then you are not alone,” The woman pats him on the cheek. “Good luck, child. You have a good heart.”

Hyunjin spends the remainder of the day alternating between dancing and sleeping. He gets texts from nearly everyone: Jeongin complaining about the quantity of healthy food in Seungmin’s house (_i want a fucking cookie hyung is that too much to fucking ask its fucking new years_), Seungmin complaining about Jeongin rejecting his snuggles. Minho and Chan send a joint text reminding Hyunjin to drink some electrolytes and not to spend all day in the dance studio. Yongbok sends a series of pictures of Changbin falling on his ass into the snow, Changbin sends a few of Yongbok looking beautiful and flushed under a line of red lanterns with the caption _god help me._ Hyunjin does his best to respond, mostly because he knows they’ll worry if he doesn’t. He even sends a message to Jisung, just a quick _stop putting despacito on my fucking playlists ill kill u._ Jisung doesn’t answer and Hyunjin tries not to freak out about it.

And then, at around nine pm, sitting cross-legged on the ground in the studio scrolling through twitter, he gets a phone call. The obnoxious ringtone startles him so much he almost hurls his phone, but he manages to keep his grip and pick up.

“Jisung?”

“Jinnie-ah,” Jisung’s voice is small. Hyunjin’s stomach fills with oily dread.

“Hey,” Hyunjin says, working hard to keep his voice even, “You okay?”

“I’m-” Jisung breaks off and Hyunjin’s heart seizes. He’s on his feet, hauling his bag over his shoulder and reaching for his jacket in an instant. “I don’t think so.”

“I’m on my way,” he says, “Tell me where you are.”

“The train station,” Jisung says, and even over the line, Hyunjin hears his voice crack, “Please, Hyunjin.”

“I’ll be there in thirty minutes, Jisung,” Hyunjin promises, “Just stay where you are.”

“Okay,” Jisung says, and then abruptly blurts out, “Don’t hang up.”

“I won’t,” Hyunjin promises, even as he hurls himself out the front doors of the studio. It’s started to snow, flakes caught suspended in the yellow light pooling from streetlamps. It’s a ten-minute walk to the bus stop; Hyunjin makes it there in three.

“Jisung,” he murmurs, “You still with me?”

“Yeah,” Jisung’s voice is barely a whisper down the line, a little burst of crackling static.

“Okay,” Hyunjin says, “Do you want me to keep talking?”

There’s a long pause, and then an even softer, “Yes.”

So Hyunjin talks. He tells Jisung about the dance he’s been practicing, about the old woman from this morning, about a cute dog he saw on his run. The bus comes and he talks about the New Years’ festivals he went to as a kid as he pays his fee and takes a seat in the back. Sneaking out of his aunt’s house at night to see the fireworks and paper lanterns, saving money to buy sweets and pretty jellies. He skirts around some of the darker stuff—the anger and shattered glass waiting for him at home, lying in bed terrified to move listening for thundering footsteps at his door.

The station is still half-dressed for Christmas, twinkling lights hung in the rafters, drooping pine trees with halos of yellowed needles done up in tinsel and little red ornaments. Big paper stars hang from the ceiling, suspended on silver threads, white light throwing soft patterns on the walls as commuters bustle past in their scarves and thick jackets. The cozy, bright atmosphere doesn’t fit well with the panic forcing its way through Hyunjin’s veins like it wants to tear him apart.

He sees Jisung immediately, sitting on the ground with his knees pulled up to his chest directly underneath the giant board of departure times. He’s as small as Hyunjin’s ever seen him, curled into himself with his shoulders slumped and his head buried in his knees.

“Jisung,” Hyunjin says into the phone, “I’m here.”

Jisung’s head snaps up, eyes finding Hyunjin immediately. He reaches out instinctively and across the crowded room, Hyunjin watches his mouth form his name.

Hyunjin moves slowly, approaching Jisung with his palms up. He crouches a few feet away, just close enough to take Jisung’s cold, shaking fingers, and feels his heart unravel in his chest.

“Oh, Jisung-ah,” he murmurs, taking in the dark blue and black bruises blooming across Jisung's face, “What did they do to you?”

“Please take me home,” Jisung pleads, “I just want to go home.”

It’s an endeavor getting Jisung to his feet without hurting him. Hyunjin doesn’t bother to ask where Jisung’s coat has gone, helping him into his own and tying his thick scarf carefully in place. Jisung is pliant, obedient aside from a few involuntary cries of pain. He leans heavily on Hyunjin as they make their way out of the station, fingers tight on his wrist.

It’s not until they’re safe inside the confines of their dorm that Jisung lets go. He sways a little on his feet as he shrugs out of Hyunjin’s coat, dropping it carelessly to the floor. There are a hundred thousand snowflakes caught in his dark sapphire curls; they fall as he brushes past Hyunjin towards the bathroom.

“Hey, wait,” Caught in the process of kicking off his soaking shoes, Hyunjin barely manages to wedge himself in the doorway to the bathroom before Jisung can slam it in his face. “Jisung.”

“Go away,” Jisung tries to shove Hyunjin away, but he stands his ground, “Leave me alone.”

“You can’t just shut me out.”

“I don’t need your help,” Giving up on forcing Hyunjin out, Jisung turns away from Hyunjin, angling himself to hide the worst of the bruising. In the shitty fluorescent lighting, he looks just about as vulnerable and defeated as Hyunjin’s ever seen him. It makes something deep in Hyunjin lurch to the surface, something fierce and angry and large. _Let me protect you,_ he screams inside his head, _please let me take care of you._

Instead, he reaches out, slow and careful. He half-expects Jisung to slap his hand away, maybe even flee the bathroom, but all Jisung does is brace himself. He lets out a soft, shuddering breath as Hyunjin’s fingers graze his cheek, finding purchase under his chin and tipping it up into the light.

Hyunjin had gotten a few quick glimpses of Jisung’s bruises at the station but it’s only now that he can make sense of the full extent of Jisung’s injuries.

It’s bad. The bruises start at the bridge of Jisung’s nose and work their way across the planes of his face, down his neck, below the hem of his shirt where Hyunjin can’t see. There’s dried blood where his skin has split open; at his mouth, his cheek, the edge of his jaw.

Hyunjin’s blood surges, hot at his wrists and in his chest. He chokes on rage, clotting in his throat all sour and metallic. The compulsion to hunt down and tear open the people who did this to Jisung – his Jisung, his family, how dare they fucking touch him – wars with his urge to be sick.

“I’ll kill them,” Hyunjin murmurs, brushing his finger along Jisung’s eyebrow, “I’m going to fucking kill them.”

Jisung watches the storm break across Hyunjin’s face with a softer expression than Hyunjin thinks he deserves. “You can’t.”

“Watch me,” Hyunjin says, “They can’t just—they can’t just hurt you and expect to get away with it.”

“It’s been my whole life,” Jisung says, “It’s not worth it, Jinnie. I’m not worth it.”

He says it lightly like it’s some kind of joke, but Hyunjin isn’t laughing.

“That’s bullshit,” he says, “You’re fucking worth it, Jisung. You’re my-” He stumbles over his words. _My family, my friend, my teammate._ Jisung watches him with calm eyes. “You’re so important to me. To all of us. We couldn’t make it without you.”

Jisung gives him a weak smile. “You’re sweet.”

“It’s true,” Hyunjin says and he means it with every fiber of his being, “You matter, Jisung. This?” he gestures at the disaster on Jisung’s face, “This matters. I’m not going to let them- I won’t let them-” he can feel himself getting worked up, voice strident with the weight of his vehemence, “I know what you’re going through, because I’ve been through it, too. And I won’t let them do what my family did to me. Okay? They don’t get to treat you like this. You’re going to stay with me where I can keep you safe.” He cards his fingers through Jisung’s hair, mindful to be gentle even with the force of his intensity as he presses their foreheads together. “Got it? They don’t get to hurt you ever again. They don’t get to touch you ever again. I won’t let them.”

Something dark clouds Jisung’s expression. “Your parents hit you?”

“My parents died when I was little,” Hyunjin says, “I was raised by my aunt and uncle.”

“And they hit you.”

“Among other things.”

Jisung hums thoughtfully. He brings a hand to Hyunjin’s face, fingers ghosting across the planes of his cheeks, mirroring the way Hyunjin is cupping his own. “What made them stop?”

“Nothing,” Hyunjin swallows, “I left.”

“You ran away?”

“Something like that.”

“You have scars.” It’s a statement of fact, not a question. Hyunjin knows Jisung’s seen them. It still puts a stone in his stomach. “From them?”

“Yes.”

Whatever Jisung’s curiosity is, Hyunjin appears to have satisfied it. He leans into Hyunjin, nuzzling into the space between his shoulder and his neck. “I’m so tired.”

“Then let me take care of you,” Hyunjin says. He brushes his mouth over the shell of Jisung’s ear, presses his nose into his snow-damp hair. “You’re so strong, but just this one time, let me be strong for you.”

“Okay,” Jisung whispers, so quiet that Hyunjin can only feel it as his mouth shapes the words against Hyunjin’s collarbone.

Hyunjin runs Jisung a bath. It takes a little while for the tub to fill, and in the meantime, Hyunjin helps Jisung out of his clothes. It should be awkward, but they’ve seen each other naked before and Hyunjin is more concerned about broken ribs than he is about Jisung’s nudity. As Hyunjin had suspected, the worst of Jisung’s injuries were hidden by his clothes. He’s like a canvas of bloody watercolor, swathes of blue and purple and red stretching from his hips to his thighs, up his back, across his shoulder-blades, along the strips of his ribs like angry vines. Hyunjin tries not to focus too much on them as he palpates for internal injuries, but it’s difficult when everywhere he touches makes Jisung seize up in pain.

Getting Jisung into the water is another ordeal. It takes several minutes of Jisung letting out horrible mangled noises and digging crescents into Hyunjin’s arms with his nails before he’s fully submerged in the warm water. Hyunjin would feel guilty for causing Jisung so much pain, except Jisung bitches the entire time and purposefully soaks Hyunjin all the way through.

“Hah-hah,” Jisung says, looking supremely smug even in his wretched state as Hyunjin makes a futile attempt to wring the water out of his shirt. “That’s what you get.”

“For trying to take care of you?” Surrendering his efforts, Hyunjin yanks his sopping t-shirt off, discarding it somewhere behind him. “You’re such a fucking nightmare.”

“I didn’t ask you to take care of me,” Jisung says. He slides further down the side of the bathtub until only his head is above water, glowering at Hyunjin like some kind of petulant sea creature.

“You didn’t have to,” Hyunjin skims his hand across the top of the water, flicking a little at Jisung. “That’s what friends do. We take care of each other.”

Jisung softens a little at that. “We’re friends?”

“Of course we’re friends, stupid,” Hyunjin says, equal parts endeared and exasperated. He reaches for Jisung’s shampoo, the one that smells like coconuts and honey. “What else would we be?”

“I don’t know,” Jisung says, voice quiet, “I guess I didn’t think you liked me very much.”

“Well, I do,” Hyunjin works the shampoo through Jisung’s hair and is rewarded with a contented hum, “You’re annoying and difficult and stupid, but you’re my friend and I’d do anything for you. Okay? No matter what.”

“Okay,” Jisung murmurs. Aside from the happy noises he makes as Hyunjin washes his hair and his skin, he’s quiet for the rest of the bath. Getting him out is much easier than getting him in, and he stands dripping on the bathmat, shivering a little as Hyunjin gingerly pats him dry and wraps him in a towel. His swelling’s gone down, along with his pain, making him pliant and drowsy as Hyunjin treats his open wounds and helps him into baggy clothes and feeds him some pain killers, tracing mindless shapes into Hyunjin’s bare chest and looking about a million miles away.

“Jisung,” Hyunjin says, tucking a finger under Jisung’s chin and tipping it up, “You with me?”

“Yeah,” Jisung hugs his arms close to his chest, “I’m tired.”

“Let’s get you to bed, then,” Hyunjin helps Jisung to his feet. Even after his bath, Jisung’s knees still buckle a little and Hyunjin has to wrap an arm around his waist to keep him from pitching forward.

“Easy,” He murmurs, pulling Jisung against his chest, “Take it easy, Jisung. You’re hurt.”

Jisung leans into him, damp hair pressing against his collarbone. “Please don’t make me sleep alone.”

“Okay,” Hyunjin says, and feels the tension leak out of Jisung’s shoulders.

Sleeping next to Jisung isn’t as foreign as it should be. Jisung smells like he always does: honey and coconut. He feels like he always does under Hyunjin’s fingertips, warm and soft and small, a persistent weight on Hyunjin’s chest. His heartbeat is familiar too, fast and fluttering, a little bird in its cage.

Hyunjin lays like that for a long time, staring up at the wooden slats of Yongbok’s bed, one hand running up and down the ridges of his spine. He feels Jisung’s breath stutter in his chest. A soft sob, so quiet and compressed it barely registers, works its way out of Jisung’s throat.

“I’ve got you,” Hyunjin murmurs. He presses his face into Jisung’s hair, takes a deep breath. “You’re safe, Jisung.”

**[conversation with: fox baby]**

**9:57**  
if i don’t return know i’ve died fighting the good fight

**10:28**  
by that i mean i short-sheeted seungmin-hyung’s bed

**10:34**  
if u don’t play mm whatcha say at my funeral ill haunt ur ass forever

**[conversation with: short hyung]**

**11:23**  
mayday yongbokie fell asleep on me

**11:24**  
hyunjin this is very serious pls send help

**11:33**  
what do i my arm is falling asleep

**11:35**  
i can’t move i’ll go to hell

**11:35**  
i only need one arm to live right

**11:52**  
god he talks in his sleep

**11:55**  
hE sAId myN amE in hishf hshfssSLEEP  
AHSDHFISDHFISDHFISHDFIHSDIFH

**[conversation with: aussie hyung]**

**11:27**  
hey heads up i think jisung might show up at the dorm a little early just a feeling  
he might be in a bad way

**11:32**  
i don’t know how much he’s told u but his parents don’t treat him right

**11:33**  
i told him not to go back but he can’t help it they have this weird control over him yk? they’ve done this before they tell him they’re gonna be a family again + then he comes back a mess

**11:34**  
just a heads up b/c ik u 2 don’t always get along the best  
but i figure out of all of us u’ll understand  
pls be there for him jinnie he’ll need u

**[conversation with: devil]**

**12:02**  
HE SHORTSHEETED MY BED IM GOING GTOF FUCKING KILL HIM

____

The night after his conversation with Minho, Hyunjin dreams of kissing Jisung on that beach under the dying golden sun. He kisses Jisung and Jisung kisses him back, and for one entire incredible moment, the world stops turning and everything is perfect.

Except out of nowhere there’s the click of a camera shutter closing and all of a sudden, Jisung is being wrenched away from Hyunjin by men in dark suits and red ties. Jisung screams his name and Hyunjin tries desperately to reach for him, but he’s surrounded on all sides by rows of reporters in black face masks and huge cameras, jostling and shouting incomprehensible questions at him. He’s trapped so tight that he can’t move, can’t even breathe, as they descend upon him with their flashing lenses and crackling microphones. Over the din, Hyunjin can hear Jisung begging, voice choked with sobs as he pleads. Hyunjin’s vision goes red and he manages to claw a gap between the wall of reporters long enough to catch a glimpse of Jisung, bucking wildly in the grip of several men in suits as the rest of Hyunjin’s team is led out onto the beach in a single-file line and forced to their knees with their hands bound behind their backs. Hyunjin screams, starts fighting even harder against his enclosure, but his strength fails him and cameras overtake him.

He wakes up to a pitch black room with claw marks in his sheets and his pillows stained with tears, so terrified that it’s hours before he can move again.

____

They don’t tell anyone Jisung’s come back early.

“It’ll just make them worry,” Jisung rationalizes the next morning, hair rumpled, bruises blooming in a macabre rainbow of blues and greens and yellows. He’s dwarfed in Hyunjin’s oversized football hoodie, sitting at the table with his feet wrapped around the legs of his chair as Hyunjin makes him eggs (yolks broken, cooked all the way through). “Minho would book them the next train home and he’s been talking about seeing his family for weeks. I don’t want to ruin it.”

_You’re his family, too,_ Hyunjin thinks but doesn’t say. The fights worth picking with Jisung once he’s made up his mind are few and far between, and he knows in his gut that this isn’t one of them.

“Okay.” He passes Jisung his eggs. “What should we do, then? Do you want to go to the festival?”

“Looking like this?” Jisung cocks his head, dry smile playing about his lips, “Really, Jinnie. I thought you were smarter than that. My face is already fucked up. If a fan took a picture of it like this, that would be my ass.”

He’s right and Hyunjin feels a little insensitive for not thinking of it, first. _So much for taking care of you._ “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Jisung pokes at his eggs, “I’m not really in the holiday mood anyway.”

“Me neither.” Hyunjin watches Jisung pick over his breakfast for a few quiet moments and then says, “I like your face.”

“What?”

_Shut up, Hyunjin._ “You said your face was already fucked up.” Hyunjin feels himself flush, just a little bit. _Shut up, shut up!_ “But without the bruises, it’s- it’s not bad.”

_Oh my god._

It’s one of the few times in Hyunjin’s life that he’s seen Jisung truly speechless. He’d almost be proud of himself if he wasn’t cringing so hard. He grips the spatula hard enough to hurt and begs some merciful god for a quick death.

“Did you just compliment me?” Jisung asks after a long moment of gawking.

In his panicked state, Hyunjin goes on the defensive. “No.”

“Oh, good,” Jisung sighs in relief and returns to his eggs, “You’re really terrible at it.”

The tone of his voice and the look on his face both seem totally sincere, but somehow Hyunjin knows Jisung’s just teasing him.

“Shut the fuck up and eat your eggs,” Hyunjin mutters and Jisung bursts out laughing.

They spend the day doing nothing festive at all. They play Mario Kart and Jisung wins every round because his screaming distracts Hyunjin from the screen. They build a fort out of pillows in the living room and half-watch reruns of bad k-dramas until they get hungry and Hyunjin makes pancakes while Jisung gets flour all over the counter and eggshells in the batter.

It’s the first time it’s ever been the two of them, really, and Hyunjin is mildly shocked to discover that when they aren’t actively trying to kill each other, he and Jisung get along fine. Better than fine. Relearning how to interact with each other without using their teeth is a little awkward, a little clumsy at first, but underneath all his sarcasm and noise and that star-hot temper of his, Jisung is thoughtful and funny and disarmingly genuine.  
It gets to Hyunjin after a while, lying on his back in their fort as Jisung recounts stories from back when it was just him and Chan. Something about this version of Jisung, soft hair and oversized clothes, quiet voice and kind eyes, that gets under Hyunjin’s skin. It makes him want to know Jisung’s favorite color, his favorite song, what he sees when he looks at himself in the mirror. Urgently, desperately, irrationally, he wants to know everything about Jisung. This Jisung who remembers that Hyunjin is allergic to shellfish, who laughs at all Hyunjin’s jokes, who lays his head on Hyunjin’s chest and counts his heartbeat out on the floor. Soft and warm and pliant all over, he smells like coconuts and honey and runs his fingers through Hyunjin’s hair.

“So handsome, Hyunjinnie,” he says, and the way he says Hyunjin’s name makes Hyunjin wish that they’d gotten to know each other so much sooner.

They spend most of the day together before Hyunjin starts to get itchy. It begins at his wrists first, spreads to his shoulders, between his ribs. Little digging thorns that gnaw away at him. He does his best to hide it, but Jisung notices his twitching regardless, perceptive little thing that he is.

“Do you need to go to the studio?” he asks, interrupting his own story about the time he and Chan snuck out of the dorms to go a party and got so plastered that they couldn’t find their way back and ended up taking a bus to Goyang. Hyunjin blinks.

“What?”

“The studio,” Jisung nods at Hyunjin’s hands, “Your shakes are back.”

Hyunjin is so taken-aback by this that when he looks down at his hands, he half-expects them to be seizing violently. They’re not; the tremors are barely even perceptible to Hyunjin. Still somehow, Jisung noticed.

“Um,” Hyunjin says, “Yeah, probably.”

“Okay,” Jisung says. He drops eye contact abruptly, staring down at his open palms, “I could come with you, if you need.”

Hyunjin is quietly dubious. Although Jisung does a pretty good job of hiding his pain, it’s been manifesting itself in tiny little ways all afternoon—aborting a half-attempt at jumping onto the counter in the kitchen, sitting straight-backed with one leg tucked underneath him on the couch, the little winces that followed whenever he got too animated or laughed too hard or moved too fast.

“You can’t,” he says, “Stay here and rest.”

“Okay,” Jisung says, and Hyunjin doesn’t miss the way his shoulders droop, his hands tighten on the blanket in his lap.

_He’s afraid of being alone,_ Hyunjin realizes, and he’s caught up in a riptide of shock. Here he was thinking Han Jisung wasn’t scared of anything.

“I don’t have to go.”

“Yeah, you do,” Jisung sighs, pushing lightly at Hyunjin’s shoulder, still avoiding eye contact, “I’ll be fine.”

“Will you?” Hyunjin means for it to be a joke, but it lands more like worry. Jisung looks up at him through his dark blue bangs, familiar crooked smile ghosting about his mouth.

“I didn’t know you were so concerned.”

Hyunjin rolls his eyes and stands up. “Just try not to get yourself killed while I’m gone, alright?”

“No promises,” Jisung stretches out gingerly, wincing a little as he does so, “Just come back soon, alright?”

“I will,” Hyunjin promises.

He doesn’t.

It’s an accident. Hyunjin is notorious for getting so caught up in his dancing that he loses track of time. He tries hard to remember, but the events of the past twenty-four hours have unearthed a flock of terrible memories locked deep within Hyunjin. Things that he’d sworn he’d put to rest the day he ran away. The emotional toll of their combined trauma proves to be too much for Hyunjin, and he has to bury himself in dance to keep himself from losing it completely.

By the time he’s gotten control again, it’s already several hours later than he promised. He swears when he checks his phone, swears again when he sees about a dozen messages from Jisung.

**[conversation with: the annoying one]**

**9:19**  
can u get strawberry gummies on ur way back uwu

**9:34**  
hey ur late. 10 points from gripelerdoor.

**9:36**  
grackaldoor?

**9:37**  
gryffindor!

**9:38**  
hyunjinnie

**9:40**  
hyunjinniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiie

**9:41**  
im so lonely without u!!!!

**9:45**  
u better be late b/c ur getting me snacks

**9:50**  
good snacks too not those shitty healthy ones u eat if u try to feed me a kale chip or whatever the fuck ill kill u

**10:00**  
ok now im worried

**10:10**  
pls pick up the phone jin

**10:30**  
where are you?

**10:32**  
i was kidding abt the snacks im sorry just let me know you’re ok

**10:36**  
:( im sorry

**10:49**  
please come home soon

____

Hyunjin spends their last two days in Busan doing everything he can to stay away from Jisung. He volunteers to go grocery shopping, to cook dinner, to make a run to the convenience store to get the lychee gummies Yongbok is craving, to go to a modern art exhibit with Seungmin. He even agrees to go with Chan on a ten-mile run, which he regrets within the first half a mile. Anything to keep himself out of Jisung’s reach. It’s stupid and irrational, but every time Hyunjin lets himself look at Jisung for too long, he sees his teammates on their knees with their hands bound, hears Minho’s warning in the back of his head. _He wouldn’t just go after me and you. He’d come for our whole team._

It doesn’t take very long for Jisung to notice that something is going on. For someone who spent so much of his time acting like an idiot, there was no one in the group as emotionally literate or observant as Jisung. He lived with one finger perpetually on the pulse of the group, measuring their energy and activity, responding preemptively to shifts in their dynamics and flow, and he did it all without thinking about it.

So Jisung notices Hyunjin’s distance immediately, but it takes him a little while to realize something’s wrong. Most of this, Hyunjin attributes to Jisung being distracted. In Seoul, it was paramount that they provided a cohesive and unified front, not only to their fans but to their managers and production staff as well. Conflict would lead to disaster, so Jisung was continually checking in and taking emotional temperatures. But there were no cameras and no expectations in Busan and Jisung could afford to be less attentive, let his sentinel duties slide.

For about half a day, Jisung interprets Hyunjin’s distance as a depressive swing and reacts accordingly, namely by keeping his excessive chattering to a minimum and showering Hyunjin with physical affection. Typically, Hyunjin would relish the skinship, but it’s impossible for him to look at Jisung without hearing the phantom screams of his teammates reverberating through his head. After Jisung’s fifth or sixth attempt to snuggle him while as all nine of them binge the new season of Stranger Things, Hyunjin finally snaps.

“Get off me, Jisung.”

It comes out a lot louder and sharper and crueler than he means it to. Confusion and hurt chase themselves across Jisung’s face as he freezes with one hand on Hyunjin’s chest. His sweater, the cream-colored one with the overstretched collar, slips off his shoulder, baring the wing-cut of his collarbones.

“Hyunjinnie?”

“I said get off.” Hyunjin shoves at him, hard enough that Jisung loses his balance and topples over onto the other side of the couch. He can feel the gazes of his teammates burning into his back as he stands up in a rush. “I’m going to bed.”

“Wait,” Jisung scrambles to his feet, reaching out to grab Hyunjin. He pulls himself short with his fingers just a breath away from Hyunjin’s chest. For the first time in a very long time, Jisung looks unsure of himself. It’s an awful expression on him, doesn’t fit at all against his soft cheeks, the slant of his pretty dark eyes. “I don’t understand. Did I do something wrong?” There’s a silent plea in his eyes, and that’s new and awful too. Jisung didn’t beg. Proud, brilliant, fiery Jisung. He raged and fought and tour things apart with his hands, draw blood with his fingernails. Han Jisung didn’t beg. Not for anything, and not for anyone. “Please, Hyunjin. I’m sorry.”

“Just stay away from me,” Hyunjin says, and each word is like a razorblade in his throat as Jisung’s face crumples in on itself.

“Hyunjin-” Chan’s heavy palm lands on Hyunjin, but the damage has been done. Hyunjin flees the carnage before it can catch up with him, guilt hot on his heels as he scrambles up the stairs and down the hall. He makes it to his bedroom just as the ghosts trapped inside him are released, flooding his throat and mouth, choking him with their phantom fingers. The door slams behind him and he slides to the ground, head in his hands.

____

It’s snowing again when Hyunjin finds Jisung waiting for him outside the dormitories. He’s sitting on the concrete curb, wrapped in a blanket, knees tucked to his chin. The bruises on his face stand out against the white like muddy handprints.

“Jisung,” Hyunjin murmurs, crouching down beside him. He’s visibly shivering, breath escaping from his chest in ghostly tendrils. Hyunjin takes his hands between his own. “You’re gonna freeze to death.”

“I came to find you,” There are snowflakes suspended in Jisung’s hair, little shards of glass against dark blue. “But I realized I didn’t have the key to the studio. And I left my ID upstairs so I couldn’t get back in.”

“So you were just going to wait until I came and found you?” Hyunjin’s voice colors with incredulity, “It could have been hours!”

“I was worried,” Jisung sulks, “You push yourself too hard. You’re going to get hurt.”

“How about you?” Hyunjin tugs Jisung’s blanket more securely around him, “How are you supposed to heal if you’re always chasing down everyone else?”

“Not everyone else,” Jisung murmurs, reaching out to trace Hyunjin’s browbone, “Just Hyunjinnie. He’s too handsome to leave by himself for too long. Too handsome and too important.”

“Enough of that,” Hyunjin laces their fingers together, “I’m sorry I was so late.”

“’s okay,” Jisung shivers as the wind picks up, bringing a tiny blizzard of snow with it, “I was- I got- I don’t-”

“Let’s get you inside first,” Hyunjin interrupts him gently. He slides an arm around Jisung’s waist and hoists him to his feet. Jisung leans into Hyunjin as he tries to find his footing. He’s so light that Hyunjin has no trouble taking his weight as they stagger together towards the dorm and swipe themselves in. Once again, Jisung detaches himself from Hyunjin the moment they’ve kicked their shoes off. He doesn’t go far though, stopping in the doorway to the kitchen to crook a finger in Hyunjin’s direction.

Hyunjin raises an eyebrow. “I’m not cooking you something. It’s like two in the morning.”

“I don’t want food,” Jisung drags one of the stools at the breakfast bar over to the counter and sets about clambering carefully onto it. Hyunjin keeps him steady with one hand on his waist as he sits up on his knees and opens the cabinet drawers. It doesn’t take a lot of rummaging before he reemerges double-fisting a half-finished bottle of rum and an unopened bottle of strawberry soju.

Hyunjin raises both eyebrows this time. “Alcohol?”

“How else are we going to ring in the new year?” Jisung asks, “Sober? What are we, twelve?”

“I guess not,” Hyunjin isn’t a prude when it comes to alcohol—he can drink them all under the table most nights of the week, even Chan. It’s just that there’s this little voice in the back of Hyunjin’s head whispering that this is a bad idea, a little voice that sounds a lot like Woojin, a little voice that is usually right about these sorts of things. But then again, Jisung’s always been a bad idea and this is a battle Hyunjin knows he’s not going to win anyway. He helps Jisung down from his stool and is rewarded by Jisung stealing Hyunjin’s phone out of his back pocket.

“Music,” he explains with a mischievous wink and then disappears off into the living room. Hyunjin collects two relatively-clean looking glasses from the drying rack and a bottle of orange juice from the fridge.

“Why do you like so many slow songs?” Jisung complains as Hyunjin enters with the chasers and glasses. Their fort is still set up in the middle of the floor. It appears to have been expanded upon in the time Hyunjin was away—Jisung has built himself a nest out of clothes. Upon closer inspection, Hyunjin discovers most of them are his own.

“I like listening to music when I fall asleep,” Hyunjin toes curiously at his favorite black-and-yellow hoodie. “Did you dismantle my entire wardrobe?”

“You were taking forever,” Jisung says, as if that explains anything. When Hyunjin cocks his head, he rolls his eyes, “They smell like you, Jinnie.”

“Oh,” For reasons beyond Hyunjin, this makes an alarming sort of heat pool in his belly, “That’s cool.”

“Uh huh,” Jisung hums, sounding a bit like he’s trying to hide a smile, “Seriously, where are all your cool playlists? All this music is depressing.”

“Why are you even using my account?” Hyunjin grumbles, taking his phone out of Jisung’s hand. Jisung settles his chin in the crook of Hyunjin’s shoulder as he skims through his Spotify, eventually settling on his warm-up playlist. Jisung hums appreciatively in his ear as Dua Lipa starts playing.

“Because Jinnie’s got such good taste when he’s not being an emo boy,” Jisung says, detaching himself from Hyunjin in order to pour them both a shot of vodka. He holds Hyunjin’s out with a devilish look on his face. “Bottoms up, Jin-ah.”

“Bottoms up,” Hyunjin repeats. They lock arms and throw back the shot. It burns the back of Hyunjin’s throat like the cheap alcohol that it is.

They do several more shots, taking breaks in between to dance to Kesha and Black Pink and Shinee. Drunk Jisung is softer and more pliant than sober Jisung and twice as fond of physical affection. He wiggles into Hyunjin’s space, hanging off of his shoulder and yell-singing Cheer Up into Hyunjin’s ear. It should probably be annoying, particularly since tipsy!Jisung isn’t very good at finding his pitch, but somehow Hyunjin ends up endeared instead. He finds himself spending most of the night trying to make Jisung laugh. It’s not hard—Jisung’s always been easily entertained. Just twirling him elicits such a delighted peal of giggles that Hyunjin can’t help but do it again and again, picking Jisung up in his arms and spinning them both around in circles until he gets so dizzy that he tips over into their fort, careful not to crush Jisung on their way down. This earns him another round of giggles as Jisung clings to him, burying his face in the crook of Hyunjin’s neck. He smells like honey and the strawberry soju and he fits into Hyunjin like a puzzle piece he didn’t even realize he was missing.

“I’m glad you came home,” he murmurs, once their laughter has died down. Jisung stills against Hyunjin’s neck and then hoists himself up until his face is hovering a few inches from Hyunjin’s. He’s got a strange look on his face, sort of sad and sort of happy all at the same time.

“Me too,” Jisung says. He touches the mole beneath Hyunjin’s eye. “Thank you for coming to get me.”

“Always,” Hyunjin says, “Always, Jisung. I’ll always come get you.”

Jisung hums. His cheeks are flushed from the alcohol, a lovely pink against his gold skin and dark hair. “I’m glad it was you.”

“Really?”

Jisung nods. “Anyone else would have pitied me. But you-” he looks down at where his fingers have knotted in the strings of Hyunjin’s hoodie. “We fought so much before. You saw all the ugly parts of me. So it doesn’t- it doesn’t feel bad. Showing you-” he gestures at his bruises, “All of this. I feel like you understand.”

“I do understand,” Hyunjin says, “And I meant what I said. They’re never going to hurt you ever again. You’re safe, here. I won’t let them touch you.”

“I believe you,” Jisung whispers.

It registers very distantly to Hyunjin that Jisung is straddling him. Once upon a time, this would have triggered some kind of knee-jerk reaction and Hyunjin probably would have punched him in the face, or at least tried his very best. Now he settles under Jisung’s weight and lets him play with his hoodie strings.

“This feels a little bit weird,” Jisung says, stealing the thought right out of Hyunjin’s head, “I feel like we shouldn’t be getting along so well.”

“Me neither,” Hyunjin says, “You’re so annoying.”

“Liar,” Jisung accuses, jabbing a finger into Hyunjin’s chest, “You like me. You think I’m charming and adorable.”

“I really don’t,” Hyunjin says, laughing as Jisung pouts at him. He sits up, forcing Jisung to scramble backwards as he reaches for the bottle of strawberry soju. Jisung resituates himself in Hyunjin’s lap, steadying himself on Hyunjin’s shoulders. He continues to look sulky, turning his nose up at the soju after Hyunjin takes a swig and offers the bottle to him.

“What?” Hyunjin says, quirking an eyebrow. “What do you want?”

Jisung scowls. “You know what.”

“I really don’t.”

Jisung’s scathing look tells Hyunjin he’s not fooled. “You’re so difficult.”

“_I’m difficult?_” Hyunjin takes another sip of soju. This time, Jisung accepts the bottle from him. “I’m sorry, who is sulking in who’s lap, again?”

“Please, Hyunjinnie,” Jisung whines, squirming against Hyunjin, “It’s the new year! You never say anything nice about me.”

“God, you really can’t stand being ignored even for two seconds,” Hyunjin runs his fingers through Jisung’s hair, tugging gently. “Fine. You’re not annoying. You’re funny and smart and talented. You’re a brilliant producer and an even better lyricist. Everything you do, you’re incredible at. You’re adorable and charming and passionate. Everyone who meets you falls in love with you.”

Jisung preens. “Really?”

“Of course,” Hyunjin says, sliding his hand out of Jisung’s hair and tracing it down his face, “I mean, look how pretty you are. They can’t help themselves.”

When Jisung looks at him again, his eyes are dark and there’s a foreign heat in them. “You think I’m pretty?”

The embers from before stir in the pit of Hyunjin’s belly. Something heady and electric travels up his spine as Jisung leans into him. “So pretty,” he says, voice growing raspy and low. He traces his thumb under Jisung’s bottom lip. “You’re so pretty, Jisung.”

They’re close enough that Hyunjin can see Jisung’s eyes dilate, can hear the catch in his breath. There’s a pause that feels like a life-time before Hyunjin leans up and closes the distance between their mouths.

Jisung tastes sweet. Sweeter than Hyunjin was expecting. When he parts his lips, there’s a flood of strawberry across Hyunjin’s tongue. His hands go to Jisung’s waist, slipping under the hem of his thick hoodie. Jisung gasps into Hyunjin’s mouth as his fingers come in contact with Jisung’s burning skin, makes an involuntary little whimpering sound at the back of his throat. It goes straight to Hyunjin’s stomach, that little noise, sets the hot embers ablaze. He kisses Jisung harder, digging his fingers into the soft handholds above Jisung’s hips. Jisung responds in kind, biting down on Hyunjin’s lip and fisting his hands in Hyunjin’s hair. Hyunjin growls at the sharp pain, breaking free of the kiss to drag his mouth down Jisung’s throat, his neck, his collarbones. He convulses under Hyunjin’s touch, moaning high and pretty and sweet as Hyunjin skims his teeth over Jisung’s pulse point, working a mark into his skin.

“Ah, Jinnie,” He whimpers, fingernails digging into Hyunjin’s scalp, “Please, _please._”

“Please?” Hyunjin murmurs against Jisung’s throat, hands sliding down Jisung’s ribs and across his thighs, “Tell me what you need, baby.”

“You, I need-” Jisung moans as Hyunjin presses an open-mouthed kiss right behind his ear, “I need- god, I need you, I want you- everywhere, please-”

All the oxygen rushes out of Hyunjin’s lungs. He pulls away from Jisung’s neck, vision swimming as his head grows dizzy. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Jisung’s hands tighten in Hyunjin’s hair, “I want you, Hyunjin. Please.”

And that’s the way it goes, just like that. Buried in the fort they built out of couch cushions and sheets, stained with strawberry soju and the bruising heat of Jisung’s mouth on his, in the glowing red-and-blue-and-purple of their flickering fairy lights. Jisung gives himself to Hyunjin in breathy gasps and high, drawn-out moans, all honeyed skin and delicate shoulder blades, thighs as soft as silk and hot as molten gold against Hyunjin’s lips. He is something holy, spread out underneath Hyunjin, back arching and thighs wrapped around Hyunjin’s back, fingers fisted in the bed of Hyunjin’s clothes. He cries out, begging for Hyunjin to give him more, more, _Hyunjin, please, I want all of you,_ and Hyunjin gives in again and again and again, gentle even as he presses into Jisung’s heat. His vision fills with stars and Jisung’s dark cat eyes, hooded and glassy as Jisung mewls, gasps, chokes on Hyunjin’s name.

That is how it goes, with each other’s names in their mouths, chests heaving, hearts pounding in time. Everything is warm and soft and tastes like strawberries and Jisung’s honey skin. Hyunjin kisses Jisung as he comes, mewling and clawing red lines into Hyunjin’s back and when it is over, they lie together, skin still smoldering, lips bruised and swollen.

“Stay with me,” Jisung murmurs into the space above Hyunjin’s heart.

“Until I die,” Hyunjin promises, and feels Jisung’s tears run tracks down his chest.

____

The coastline is beautiful. Even choking on the weight of being helplessly in love with his team member for four years, Hyunjin can appreciate how striking it is. Long stretches of dark rock, dotted with green seagrass and sagebrush and wildflowers, dropping off into jagged cliffs that plunge along silver-gold sand and miles and miles of bright blue seawater. The brutal beauty of it all strikes a chord in Hyunjin’s chest and he takes dozens of photos: of the grass, of the sea, of Seungmin and Jeongin laughing, Yongbok and Changbin holding hands, Minho with flowers in his hair, Chan perched on the edge of a precipice, black outline impossible and brave and resilient against the unmarked blue sky. He’s always liked candids best, thinks his teammates look the most themselves when they don’t know they’re being photographed. He likes to think he’s pretty good at catching them unawares too, but there’s always one exception.

“Stop taking pictures of me.”

Hyunjin lowers his camera warily. Jisung’s always been an easy read, he keeps all of his emotions right there at the surface, and Hyunjin recognizes his white-hot rage immediately. Jisung could probably pick a fight with someone in his sleep, but it’s been a little while since he’s tried to pick one with Hyunjin.

Hyunjin, who never even thought he had a temper until he met Jisung. It’s like he’s a gallon of gasoline and Jisung’s the stupid spark.  
But he’s not the kid he used to be and knows the only reason Jisung’s lashing out is because he’s hurt. So when the flames leap to his throat, he grits his teeth and swallows them back down, turns his back and starts up the trail.

“Hey!” Jisung shouts after him, “Don’t you fucking walk away from me, Hwang Hyunjin.”

The threat in Jisung’s voice goes straight to the snarling dog chained to Hyunjin’s chest. All the pent-up rage and fear and frustration from years and years of pretending and faking and locking his feelings deep inside burst like capsules inside Hyunjin, painting his insides crimson.

He half-turns. Jisung’s chin is raised defiantly, hands balled into fists at his sides. Even though he’s doing a good job of hiding it, Hyunjin can tell he’s shaking.

“What?” Hyunjin says, trying to keep his tone even, “I stopped, didn’t I?”

“Fuck you,” Jisung says, “You know that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Kids,” Chan says quietly. He draws closer, placing himself carefully between Jisung and Hyunjin like a human shield, although which one of them he’s protecting, Hyunjin doesn’t know. “This isn’t worth it.”

“No, no, hyung,” Hyunjin says, stepping out of Chan’s shadow and directly into Jisung’s war path, “Let him talk. He’s clearly got something to say.” He gestures at Jisung. “Have at it, Jisung. What’s your fucking problem?”

“_My_ fucking problem?” Jisung’s voice goes shrill, “You’re looking at me like you want me to fucking disappear, but I’m the one with the problem?”

“You’re being so fucking dramatic,” Hyunjin sneers, “I’m not looking at you like that. I don’t look at you at all. It’s not my fault you see things that aren’t even there.”

“Bullshit,” Jisung snarls, “That’s bullshit, and you know it, Hyunjin. You know how much I-” he cuts himself off, voice wracked with thick welts of emotion. When he speaks again, it’s in a ragged whisper, like every word he says is being clawed out of him. “Tell me, then. Tell me how fucking annoying I am. How fucking pathetic for craving attention so badly. Tell me how I’ll never be good enough for you.”

It’s a call-back to their old fights, all the scars they inflicted on each other, all the places they pressed because they knew it would hurt the most. It hits Hyunjin in the chest like a ton of bricks, knocks the breath right out of his lungs.

“That’s it, right?” Jisung says, voice thick. “That’s why you’ve been avoiding me. Because I’m too fucking needy.” He pulls out a horrible, warped mimicry of his own voice, all nasally and ugly. “_Oh please, Hyunjinnie, please look at me. Please touch me. Please pay attention to me, please._” There are tears in his eyes. He wipes viciously at them with his sleeve. “Pathetic, right? I should know better by now. You’re never going to love me the way I want you to.”

Hyunjin’s heart falls right out of his mouth. He starts forward, even as Chan throws a hand out to stop him. “Jisung-”

“There,” Jisung says, voice wavering with the weight of his words, “I said it. I fucking said it. I love you. I love you, Hyunjin. I’m a fucking idiot, and I’m in love with you. I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t want it to happen, but it did, and now it won’t go away.”

“Jisung,” Hyunjin says again, but Jisung throws up his hands and backs away.

“You got your wish, Hyunjinnie,” Jisung says, “I’ll leave you alone.”

He takes off, running back the way they came. Yongbok shouts his name and tries to run after him but Seungmin grabs his wrist, holding fast.

“Let him go,” he says, “He needs space.”

“Wait,” Hyunjin says, “Wait, no. I need to go after him.”

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” Minho sneers, “I take back what I said before, Jinnie. You did make everything worse.”

“I know,” Hyunjin says. He can feel his whole team looking at him, all of his brothers. Quiet. Waiting. “I know, I fucked up, but please. I can fix it. I can-”

“Can you?” Changbin asks. It’s not particularly accusatory, but Hyunjin flinches anyway. “You heard what he said. You can’t just put a bandage on this and call it good.”

“No,” Hyunjin says, “I mean, yes. I mean-” He takes a deep breath. Steadies himself. “I don’t want to put a bandage on this. I want-” Another breath. Poised on the edge of a precipice, one foot dangling off the edge. His heart in his mouth, blood roaring in his ears. Jisung’s strawberry kiss staining his mouth. All of their quiet moments, Jisung’s hummingbird pulse against his fingers. _All you ever had to do was walk in the room._ “This is the only family I’ve ever had. I didn’t want to ruin it. I don’t want to tear us apart.”

“That worked out great then, didn’t it?” Seungmin quips, “We’re one big happy family right now, aren’t we?”

“Minnie,” Chan murmurs, quieting him. His eyes are sad. “Jinnie, do you really think we wouldn’t have supported you?”

“I didn’t want to put it on you,” Hyunjin says, “It’s not fair. If JYP found out-”

“Then we’d protect you,” Changbin says, “Eight or nothing, Hyunjinnie. What happens to one of us happens to all of us. We’d figure it out.”

Hyunjin feels his heart contract. “I didn’t want you to make that choice.”

“That’s not your call,” Chan says, “We appreciate you thinking of us, Hyunjin, but you said it yourself—we’re family. Talk to us, any of us. You deserve to be happy. We want you to be happy.”

“I-” Hyunjin’s throat floods with so much aching warmth that he can’t speak, choked by the light flooding him through, lighting up his insides. He can feel his brothers’ love radiating from them, fierce and unconditional, nameless and all-encompassing as he takes them in. Jeongin and his sharp eyes. Changbin’s steadiness. Yongbok’s sunny smile. Minho and his barbed love. Seungmin’s resilient loyalty. Chan and his hurricane kind of faith. He loves them so much that his heart breaks a little. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank us yet,” Minho says, “Stop being a coward. Both of you deserve better. I told you to fix this once; I’m not telling you again.”

Hyunjin turns, half-unsure. “Are you going to-” _Don’t leave me._

“We won’t leave you behind,” Chan promises, “Go. We’ll be here.”

____

Jisung hasn’t gone far. Hyunjin finds him just around the bend in the trail, hidden behind an outcropping of dark rock. He’s sitting with his knees pulled to his chest, watching the waves break against the coast a hundred meters below them. The sun hasn’t begun to set yet, but it hangs low in the sky, casting Jisung in that familiar golden light.

Once again, Hyunjin sees two versions of the same Jisung. The undersized sixteen-year-old who punched Hyunjin hard enough to chip his tooth, who stole his favorite hoodie, who called him names in Malay and made fun of his satoori. _I’d rather kill myself than debut with you._ The scrappy nightmare of a boy Hyunjin used to hate more than anyone else in this world, the kid he’d dreamed of breaking apart into little tiny pieces.

_He’s still scrappy,_ Hyunjin thinks as he takes a seat beside Jisung. Still little. Still couldn’t break the scale at a hundred pounds, even soaking wet. He’s still got the same temper, the same teeth, the same razor-sharp wit and scathing tongue. But the Jisung beside him now isn’t that fifteen year old boy anymore. He’s not the boy he was in January either, the one who gave himself to Hyunjin bruised and lonely and desperate for anything that wasn’t emptiness. He’s tougher. Stronger. Kinder. He’s the boy who held Hyunjin’s hand on their debut stage, who stood at his side when they took their first award. Who travelled across the world with him, through America and Australia and Japan. He’s the boy who slips into Hyunjin’s bed when the night-terrors haunt his sleep, who drinks with him until they’re both too drunk to stand, the boy who has seen Hyunjin at his absolute lowest, who has seen him sobbing and vomiting blood, broken and unable to stand up. The boy who has stood by him unflinchingly as he falls apart again and again and again.

“Jisung,” Hyunjin says, “Jisung. Look at me.”

He’s crying. Hyunjin sort of knew that was coming, but it hurts anyway, watching tears well in his dark feline eyes, track silver streaks down his cheeks.

“Oh Sung,” Hyunjin murmurs. He reaches out, half-expecting Jisung to turn away, but miraculously, impossibly, he closes his eyes and leans into Hyunjin’s touch. He catches one of Jisung’s tears on his thumb before it can fall. “I made you cry.”

“Not your fault,” Jisung wipes at his eyes, “I was stupid. I thought- I got my hopes up.”

“You weren’t stupid,” Hyunjin cradles Jisung’s face in his hands, “You weren’t stupid at all. I’m the stupid one. I’m the one- I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I let you think even for a second that I didn’t want you.”

“You- what?” Jisung looks up at him as the sun catches on his eyelashes, setting them to gold.

“I was scared,” Hyunjin says, “I realized how much I cared about you on that beach, and it scared me. So I ran. I’m sorry. I thought maybe- maybe I could pretend. Maybe I could hide it. It puts the whole team at risk. Our family. If the company found out, I don’t know what would happen. We would- we could lose everything.”

The look Jisung gives him is wary, but underneath, there is a helpless kind of hope blooming on his face. Flushed and golden in the sun, he’s the prettiest thing Hyunjin’s ever seen. “What are you talking about?”

“I love you, Jisung,” Hyunjin says, and the words fall out of his mouth like stars, shatter on the rock between them, sending light fracturing in every direction. “I’m in love with you. I think I have been for a really long time.”

And then, before Jisung can even open his mouth, Hyunjin leans forward and kisses him. Not hard. Not violent. No teeth. Just soft and gentle. Long. Slow. It’s the kind of kiss that makes Jisung sigh as he parts his lips, breath warm against Hyunjin’s tongue. The kind of kiss that makes him shudder under Hyunjin’s fingers, arch into his touches, curl his fingers in Hyunjin’s hair. It’s the kind of kiss that says _I have been in love with you for four and a half years of my life,_ that says _stay with me,_ that says _I have never wanted anything the way I’ve wanted you._ It’s the kind of kiss, Hyunjin thinks, that should have been their first.

When Hyunjin finally leans away, Jisung touches his mouth in wonder.

“Wow,” he says, gaze glassy, “Uh. Okay.”

“I don’t know how this is going to work,” Hyunjin says, “I don’t know how we’re going to- I talked with the others, and they are okay with it, but there’s still- we can’t- I mean, we can, we just have to-”

“Hyunjin,” Jisung murmurs. When he smiles, it’s crooked and bright and violent and soft and full of love. Familiar and foreign, a welcome home and a welcome back. _Hello, it’s been a while._ “You’re thinking too hard.”

“It’s serious,” Hyunjin says, even as his heart stutters in his chest, “There are things and we have to be careful and Chan said that they’d stand beside us but I really think-”

“God,” Jisung hooks two fingers through Hyunjin’s collar and yanks him forward, “Shut the fuck up.”

And then he kisses Hyunjin. And Hyunjin, for once in his life, stops thinking.

____  
_"Too much," she said, "I loved him too much. But I think that's the only way to love someone." - Sue Zhao _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was supposed to be a 5k one-shot. lmao. 
> 
> come yell about skz with me on [tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theloyaltyofthewolves).


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